


A Light That Never Goes Out

by coffeeandcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assault, Depression, Detective Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Grey's Anatomy References, Head Injury, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Librarian Castiel, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Inaccuracies, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, Past Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Past Castiel/Other(s), Past Domestic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape, Rape Recovery, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-12-04 16:45:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 69,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11559297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: Dean Winchester is a Homicide Detective working in Kansas City. He loves his job, his husband, and his dog. It's 3am on a Friday night and he’s just been called to the scene of a violent rape and attempted murder outside a gay bar in town. When he arrives, he's met with a scene he never imagined he would encounter even in his wildest nightmares.The victim is his husband, Castiel.Was Castiel a target, or a random victim in the wrong place at the wrong time? And what was he doing in town in the middle of the night when Dean thought him asleep in bed?When Castiel wakes from a coma with memory problems, Dean may never get his answers, and their relationship may be changed for good.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from the lovely **palaminopup**!

**24th January**

“So! Have you had a good day?” Happy, Castiel plops down on the couch next to Dean and tucks one leg underneath him, a steaming cup of hot chocolate cradled in both hands. His cable-knit sweater is a little large from him - a Christmas present from his brother - and he's red-cheeked from sitting too close to the crackling fire as he watched Dean open his birthday presents. His boyfriend’s eyes are sparkling and he's gorgeous to behold - Dean can't resist leaning in for a kiss.

“I've had the best day. You spoil me, sweetheart.” Dean has the Zepp vinyl on his lap, has been clinging to it ever since he unwrapped it. It's a rare edition, one of the few Dean doesn't have, and he's over the moon with the gift. It must have taken Cas ages to track it down. “Thank you. So much.”

Cas shrugs with a smile. “Happy birthday. See, turning thirty-five isn't so bad.”

“It could be worse.” Dean kisses Cas again, closed-mouthed but considering seeking more, and frowns in confusion when his partner pulls away. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” Cas fidgets, avoiding his gaze. “I, um, have something else for you. It's only small!” He hurried to add as Dean opens his mouth to protest. “But I hope you'll like it.”

Their dog, Ruby, sits up in interest and wags her tail; Dean glances at her and narrows his eyes. What does she know? But suddenly he's looking back at Cas, open-mouthed and rendered speechless. Cas is holding his hand out to Dean, palm up, and there's a green leather box in it and all the feeling rushes out of Dean's hands and feet as his heart pounds with shocked excitement. No… Cas _can't_ be… he's…

“Dean,” Cas is blushing furiously, his cup held in one shaking hand as he clearly tries to make out like this isn't the biggest deal in the entire fucking goddamn world. “I've been thinking and I wondered… I hoped… um…”

“Yes?” Dean prompts, unable to stop a shit-eating grin from spreading across his face. He grips the record in his hands so tightly he could fracture it. Cas’ eyes shoot up to meet his and he seems to draw confidence from Dean’s reaction.

“Do you want… I mean, would you like to… oh, I'm fucking this up.” Cas coughs, clears his throat, then says in a voice a few octaves higher than usual: “Dean, I just love you, all right? And I hoped… will you marry me?”

There's a silence, just for the length of a heartbeat, maybe two. Cas’ blue eyes are wide with nerves and he's breathing a little fast. Dean is…

“You… I can't believe you…” Dean isn't a crier. He doesn't cry. But tonight he does, his body taking over and sending silvery tears down his cheeks as Cas opens the ring box with a thumb and shows him the platinum band nestled on a velvet cushion. “ _Yes_. Yes, Cas, a hundred times yes.”

And he launches himself at Cas, making sure to slide the vinyl to one side and to grip the hand holding the ring with the other to keep it safe as Cas bursts out laughing. Hot chocolate goes everywhere and Cas pushes the ring onto Dean’s finger with trembling hands as they laugh and kiss and smile through the happiest tears. It's the best birthday Dean has ever, ever had.

 

**Present Day**

Dean should be used to the flashing lights of the emergency services by now. Seven years total in the police force: three as an officer, two as a crime scene investigator, and now he's closing in on his third year as a Homicide Detective. He loves his job, despite the gut-wrenching highs and lows that accompany it, and he's proud of how far he's come. He's not a high-school dropout living in his father’s car anymore, no sir. He helps people. He saves people, and even when he can't he brings justice to those who have had their lives cruelly ripped away from them. He brings closure to bereaved families. He takes threats off the streets and chucks them behind bars. He watches the bad guys rot, and it satisfies him. He's known on the force for taking no prisoners, and for being charming right up to the strike point. Mesmerising, gaining trust, then going in for the kill. He sometimes thinks there may be some truth in the nickname of ‘Cobra’ that his Academy roommate had slapped onto him in their third month of knowing each other.

The lights are like a beacon to him. A signal that he's needed, and they guide him to the destination. When he's working a case he's focused, driven, has sleepless nights and works himself to the bone until he makes a breakthrough. He's been called a workaholic many a time but he just smiles and shrugs it off. It's just the way he works, and it's the reason he has such a high success record. He's relentless, never gives in. Will never, ever give up until every avenue is utterly exhausted. Does it affect his home life? He doesn't think so, and he's never been given any reason to think Castiel is anything but happy with him. Castiel's job is busy too and he keeps odd hours, so they work well as a team. More often than not, Dean will wake with a start after having a sudden breakthrough on a case and come downstairs to head to the station and find Cas at their kitchen table with his glasses on, frowning, and working tirelessly through a translation. They laugh about it: Castiel jokes that they're like passing ships. That he sees more of their Akita-cross-whatever than he does of Dean. But it's never, ever been a problem, not really. It's just the job. The thrill of the chase. The sound of screeching brakes and doors slamming and coffee machines, paperwork rustling, marker pens on whiteboards, voices scrambling to talk over each other in excitement.

But the lights, they still make him feel nauseous from time to time. Still send spikes of adrenaline-fuelled anxiety pulsing through him, still make his palms sweat and his heart beat out a staccato rhythm against his ribs. For he never knows what he's going to find, not really. He can form mental pictures, prepare himself for the worst, but even now he's still shocked and disgusted by the scenes he's forced to confront. He's grown adept at hiding those reactions over the years so that now everyone just sees him as cool, detached, focused and professional. The guy they bring in to make it right. To catch the killer. To close the case. His reputation precedes him by a light year and he's closing in on a promotion. It's only when he's at home after his shift has finished and he's unbuckled his holster that he can finally let his true emotions show through the cracks. It's a difficult job, raw on the nerves no doubt about it. But it's his job, his calling, and he loves the burn.

The lights should be his cue. His command, his on-switch, his instruction to tighten his belt, dust off his palms and slap on his mask of professionalism to tackle a new case. But not tonight. For a reason far beyond his grasp, he can't get out of the car. Something feels wrong, off, disjointed. He's driven with a heavy knot of concern in his stomach, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the wheel as his favourite Zeppelin album failed to calm his nerves. He had tried calling his husband, seeking comfort, but the call had rolled straight to voicemail. That isn't uncommon: Castiel normally turns his phone off for bed and Dean normally doesn't care. But tonight he aches for reassurance, reassurance that hasn't come. Something is wrong, he can feel it deep in the marrow of his bones. Something has happened, and he can't shake the notion that his life is about to tilt violently on its axis. He wishes fervently that Castiel, his husband of nine weeks, three days and fourteen hours, had answered his call. He still can't get used to the word: _husband_. He loves it more than he can explain, and every time he says it to anyone a shit-eating grin spreads across his face that he just can't hold in. He introduces Cas as his husband to everyone, pulling him just a little closer as he says the word, blushing and smiling and watching as Cas' reaction echoes his. Their friends laugh at them for it, but they don't care. They're young (relatively) and in love (absolutely). And Dean has never been happier.

He exhales a couple of times and reaches for the handle, opening the door and stepping out into the cool night air. For 3am the street is crowded with folk craning their necks to see what's going on. Damn rubberneckers. They're on the very edge of a bad part of town; right around the corner there's a fancy restaurant with a maître d and expensive wine - he knows it's expensive because the Sauvignon there is Castiel’s favourite - and around another corner there are bullet holes in the walls. Hazard of the city, he supposes. But this street, the one he's on, he's familiar with. It's where he and Castiel met, years ago, and he feels a pang of nostalgia as he walks down the street towards the small crowd gathered around the emergency services. He flashes his badge to a stern-looking cop who lets him duck under the tape and immediately spots his Chief, Ellen Harvelle, talking intently with two other officers. One of them is his buddy, DI Lafitte, the one who called him and requested he attend the crime scene. The call had been difficult to understand thanks to constant bursts of static down the line and the wail of an approaching ambulance in the background, but Dean had got the location and hopped in his car right away, never one to drag his feet. But it was on the journey over that things started to feel off; his skin began to crawl and he felt bile rising in his throat for no reason he could fathom. There was something in Lafitte's wording, something in his voice. Something unidentifiable, and he had pressed down on the gas a little harder. He glances up at the bar - it's closed and the white-faced owner is in the crowd, chewing her nails and staring over towards a darkened alley where he can see medics crouching over someone lying sprawled on the ground under hastily-erected floodlights. If they're working on him at the scene the poor SOB likely isn't long for this world. Either that or he needs a miracle. The ground beneath their scrubs and trainers is blood-stained and the air tastes of grim determination. They all want to go home with a success story on their lips. But something tells Dean that ain't gonna happen.

Dean approaches Harvelle and Lafitte at the same time as a blonde, lanky paramedic does. He watches as the other guy strips off blood-drenched latex gloves and wipes sweat from his brow, turning to address the Chief just as Dean reaches the small group, overhearing their conversation.

“He's stable enough to travel, but it ain't looking good. We’ll head to City - should we expect to see his any family there?”

“His family has already been called,” Harvelle says with a strange, uncharacteristic softness to her voice, and her eyes land on Dean as she speaks, not helping to take the edge off his nerves. She's an older lady who scared the life out of Dean when he first came to work for her, fresh-faced and eager. Now she's like a surrogate mother to him - and is still as scary, he blonde hair pulled back tightly from her face and frown lines between her brows. “We’ll follow.”

From down the alleyway, there's the sound of another paramedic speaking, a woman this time. “On my count: one… two…” And Dean shivers in the autumnal chill. A few feet away he hears another uniformed cop speaking into a radio - ' _rape...aggravated assault...attempted murder...'_ \- and he knows this is going to be a bad one. The expressions on the faces of his colleagues seem more grave than usual, and he doesn't quite like the way Harvelle is eyeing him. 

“So, what's the deal, boss?” He tries for a grin and knows it doesn't quite reach his lips. “Did I hear wrong or is the guy still in the land of the living? Because, and no disrespect ma’am, but if there ain't a corpse down that alley then why am I here?”

The very fact that she doesn't clap him around the head for his sass is the giveaway that something is very wrong. This isn't a normal crime scene, not for him. Ellen Harvelle’s eyes are grave and she opens and closes her mouth, apparently lost for words. Another fact that sends chills down his spine. His palms feel damp.

“Chief?” Even to his own ears, his voice is hesitant. “What's going on?”

It's Benny Lafitte who answers him; he's Dean’s best friend on the force and has been with him since the Academy. He's the one responsible for the nickname. He's a big guy, intimidating to look at but kind-hearted and fair, and with a large amount of affection for those he holds dear. So when Benny’s large hand comes to rest firmly on his shoulder, he knows something bad is coming.

“It's Cas, brother,” Benny’s voice is soft but firm, but the words just don't make sense to Dean. What's Cas?

Down the alley, the paramedics have the victim on a gurney and Dean can see him better now: he's strapped to a backboard and restrained with a neck brace, and there's a tube going into his mouth. One of the female paramedics, blonde hair in a swinging ponytail, is squeezing a bag regularly, pumping air into the man's lungs - he clearly isn't breathing for himself, or if he is then he isn't doing it well. There's a lot of blood matting his hair together and coating his face, combined with what looks like chunks of shredded flesh and, beneath it, the snatches of skin that Dean can see are ashen, a horrible grey colour. Tubes filled with clear liquid tangle together and disappear under ripped clothing to where he knows they'll penetrate skin, seeking veins, and the guy is hooked up to a heart-rate monitor which is beeping out a rhythm: too slow, too weak. The vic looks to be at death's door.

"What's Cas?" Dean can't take his eyes off the victim; he can't see his face properly thanks to the blood and gore, the bodies moving swiftly around him, and the tube forcing his breath into his lungs. "Benny..." He feels a strange sensation of falling and reaches out for his colleague. Benny grips both his hands tightly, grounding him. "What do you mean? Benny, what are you saying?"

"Dean, whatever happens, we're here for you." Ellen, Harvelle, the Chief, she's speaking now and Dean's head is spinning. Nothing makes sense. Castiel is at home, in bed, asleep. Dean knows that, Dean spoke to him only two hours ago. "Whatever you and Cas need, we'll do whatever we can to provide it."

"I don't... I don't understand." Dean shakes his head slowly in an attempt to clear it but there's a low hum in his ears now, white noise, and it's only getting louder. "You're saying that... the vic, that he... no." He comes to a sudden, firm decision and shakes his head, his vision and ears clearing. "You're wrong, sorry, Chief, but you're mistaken. I spoke to Cas a while ago, he's at home. I'm calling him, right now, just let me..." He whips his phone out with trembling hands and speed-dials his husband. The call rolls to voicemail and he hears the low, gravelly voice saying, 'You have reached my voicemail...' and he hangs up with a savage jab at his screen. He almost doesn't dare look up, but when he does he sees Benny's eyes dark and sad, full of concern. "It's fine. Cas never has his phone on when he's asleep. I'll just... I can just..."

At that moment someone nudges him gently, pushing him back, and the paramedics push the gurney past the small group of officers huddled together. Dean can't help it; he takes an automatic step towards the victim, the victim he's certain isn't Cas, then another step. He's still too far away to see his face properly, but as his gaze lands on the man's arm his heart stops in his chest. A white strip of bloody gauze covers part of the man's forearm, and below that stretches an expanse of tanned skin, turned golden from hours spent out running in the sunshine, and a slim wrist with strong hands, fingers curling gently but unmoving, and on the left ring finger is a silver band with deep script etched into it. It's sickeningly familiar and Dean feels his world tilt as he stumbles and Benny grabs him around the waist for support. He knows that ring. He put that ring on Castiel's finger not three months ago, and he's seen it every day since then. Every morning when he wakes up he admires it, thinks about what it means and smiles. He _knows_ that ring. That's Castiel’s wedding ring. Bile rises in his throat and an internal voice starts up a low mantra of _no, no, no..._

"Cas..." His voice breaks as he steps forward again, numb hands shoving a paramedic out of the way a little too roughly. "Cas? Cas!"

Then he's right there, beside the bloodied, pale face of his husband and it's a struggle to breathe. Benny's hands are there, warm and supportive on his back and shoulder, but he can't see anything but Cas. Cas, lying there with his eyes closed looking on the verge of death, face caked with fresh and dried blood, unable to breathe for himself... Dean's vision blurs then clears again. A paramedic tries to move him gently out of the way and he pushes back, hard.

"No! Stop it, what are you doing to him? What have you done? Cas, Cas, wake up! Open your eyes, come on. Cas!" This isn't happening. This can't be happening. This is a bad dream: Dean has dozed off in his car after too many doughnuts and is having a nightmare. Frantic, he pushes up his sleeve and pinches his own skin, hard, but nothing around him changes. He does it again, his nails digging in deep enough to leave crescent moon indents, but the scenery remains the same. The bustling emergency services. The grave, pitying expressions. The bloody gauze and ashen skin. The lights. "Cas..." He leans down, close to his husband and tries to take his hand. "Cas... come on, man, wake up. I love you. I _need_ you. Cas, please..."

Benny succeeds in pulling Dean back just far enough so that the medics can get Cas into the ambulance. And almost immediately there's a horrific sound from one of the monitors and Dean's heart freezes in his chest as the medics move more urgently and one of them shouts something about chest compressions. _No. No, no, no..._

"What the hell is going on?" Wild, Dean turns on his Chief who stands firm in the onslaught of his emotions and lets him explode. "What the hell is he doing here? And what happened? Who called it in? What leads have you got, what..."

The ambulance doors slam with a terrible, horrifying finality and Dean sways again, his ire flooding out of him as quickly as it had come, to be replaced by... nothing. Terrifying, all-consuming numbness. He's seen this happen to family members at crime scenes and knows exactly why they meet them at the hospital or down at the station where possible. The fear, the anger, the shock... it isn't helpful to anyone, and he starts to shake as his mind replays images of Cas. Cas smiling, Cas laughing, Cas talking on the phone, Cas lying on the sofa asleep after reading, Cas on their first date, on the night they met, at their wedding... Cas lying bloody and motionless in front of his eyes...

"Dean." Benny grips his shoulder once more. "Get in the car, I'll take you to the hospital. C'mon, brother."

"No... I have to ride with... with Cas..." He turns sluggishly, but the ambulance is already pulling away and the sirens wail, making them all start with shock. Benny takes his arm and his other hand comes to Dean's back, supporting him.

"Let's go, brother. We'll meet them there. They need space to work on him."

"Benny," Dean turns wide, unseeing eyes on his colleague, his closest friend. "What the hell happened to him?" The gaze he receives in return is all the answer he needs.

“Do you really wanna know right now, cher?” It's Benny’s pet name for him, has been for years ever since they… anyway, it's a long-standing nickname that only comes out in intense circumstances these days. Dean nods wordlessly and Benny visibly tenses up then sighs. “Alright. Call was from a passer-by, found him out cold in the alley and strugglin’ to breathe. He's… Dean, he's been raped,” The word doesn't register, not really. Dean nods at him to continue, face and knuckles stark white. “Initial medical assessment says broken ribs, broken arm, but they'll heal. That ain't the worst of it. Dean, someone wanted to hurt him. Wanted him never to be able to talk about this.” Benny’s gaze drifts off, over towards the dark alley where the forensics team are moving in. “Tyre iron to the head. It's bad, Dean. We need to get you to the hospital. You need to be with him.”

“But why…” The words stick in his throat. He isn't processing this at all. He's numb, completely. Benny says something to Harvelle who nods once at him then tries to send a reassuring smile in Dean’s direction. He can't return it. Benny guides him with a firm hand on his lower back over to his cop car and opens the door for him. When they're both inside and the car is pulling away from the curb, Dean manages to make his vocal cords work. “Why was Cas here? It's 3am, Benny. Why was he out at a bar? He should have been… I thought he was at home.”

“I don't know, brother. But we’ll find out and we’ll catch the monster who dared mess with one of our own and we’ll skin him alive. I swear it to you, cher.”

Dean leans back against his seat and tries to remember how to breathe. That voice in his head isn't saying _no_ any more. It's asking _why_. Why Cas, why tonight, why here, why? Just… why?

Benny is mercifully silent on the drive to City Hospital and Dean’s hands go numb. He sits ramrod straight, his breath coming in low, shallow gasps and he can't think through the white noise in his mind as the police car speeds through the city in the wake of the ambulance. The sirens wail, agony to his ears, and like all cops he knows the significance of the sirens. Before Dean started as a cop he thought sirens were just a mandatory part of an ambulance journey, and swiftly found out that he was wrong. They're used sparingly so as not to panic the patient or risk causing a crash as drivers scramble to get out of the way. So in most cases, the journey is a silent one. But sirens and lights en route to the hospital? They mean the patient under the care of the paramedics is in a severe condition and their life is hanging in the balance.

The blue and red flashing lights bounce off every surface, casting dark, menacing shadows and hurting his burning eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've borrowed a couple of characters from another favourite show of mine (Grey's Anatomy) to act as background characters. If you don't watch the show, don't worry - it will all still make sense. Let me know what you think!
> 
> I've updated the tags so please check before reading.

The hospital is too warm and smells too strongly of disinfectant. Dean feels dizzy the moment he steps through the doors and only Benny’s hand on his back stops his knees from buckling. He hates hospitals with a burning passion, and knows he isn't alone in that. The first time he remembers being in the emergency room he was four, his skin marked with soot and ash, being told his mother was dead as his father broke down sobbing; those were the after-effects of a house fire. Then, years later, he was a brave-faced twenty-year-old saying goodbye to his father as the man struggled on a ventilator and his heart eventually gave out. John Winchester drank himself to death following the loss of Mary, had never been the same since, and left Dean to fend for himself and take care of his younger brother, a responsibility he wasn't ready for. Dean had prayed that night, for the first time. Prayed that his father found the peace in death that he hadn't reached in life, and prayed his mother would look after him in Heaven. He didn't really believe in God or Heaven or angels, but it felt like the right thing to do at the time.

Everything happens in a confusing, terrifying blur. Dean hasn't been on this side of the fence in years, and slotting into the role of thevictim’s family isn't coming easy. He keeps asking Benny why, why Cas was there, why him, and his colleague has no answers for him. He just squeezes Dean’s shoulder and waits with him, for what feels like hours, while nurses and surgeons hurry past and ask him questions he struggles to answer while they shove forms under his nose, requesting he sign them. He scribbles his signature with shaking hands, no idea what he's consenting to but knowing that it's the only possible way to save Cas’ life. Eventually, the doctor appears and heads towards him, looking tired and drawn; he's older, serious-looking, dark-skinned and balding with a close-cut greying beard, and Dean immediately trusts him with Cas’ life. He looks like he's saved thousands of people over the course of his career, now it's Cas he needs to save. Hours have passed, but how many Dean has no idea. He stands, sways, and is held steady by Benny.

“Dean, take a seat, please.” The doctor pulls a chair up too, looking grave as Benny settles Dean on a plastic chair and, after a second’s hesitation, reaches over to take his hand. “I'm Dr. Webber, I'm the chief of surgery here at City Hospital. We've managed to get your husband stabilised and we’re taking him for a CT scan in a few minutes. But I have to be honest with you, Dean, his condition is serious. He's suffered major head trauma and loss of blood from the knife wounds-”

“He… he was stabbed?” Dean pales further, looking to Benny with wide eyes. Benny looks just as shocked as he feels. Webber looks apologetic, clearly assuming (wrongly) that Dean was aware of that little fact. It makes his stomach roil nastily. The idea of Cas getting stabbed… The idea of _any_ of this. He must have been terrified. And… _God_. Dean covers his face with his hands. Was this before or after he was… was… He can’t even _think_ the word let alone voice it. The doctor’s hand comes into his focus, drawing him back.

“Yes, Dean, he was stabbed. Twice. I’m so sorry. I know this is difficult to hear but it's important that you know all the facts.” The ‘so you can prepare yourself’ goes unsaid. “Once in the abdomen and once in the chest, dangerously near his heart - the knife missed the right ventricle by half a centimetre; any closer and he would have bled out before anyone reached him. He was…” Webber doesn’t say it, he doesn’t say _lucky_ which is a wise decision on his part. Lucky isn’t a word that Dean will ever, in any sense associate with this situation. “We had our best surgeons work on him. Dr. Yang is our cardiac specialist and she oversaw everything in case there was a problem, but he's out of surgery. We've managed to get the bleeding under control, have given him two transfusions and he’s in recovery. But it's the head injury we’re concerned about. Trauma of this magnitude can be difficult to assess until we know the extent of the damage, which may not be until tomorrow or the following day thanks to the swelling…”

Dean loses track of the man’s words. It's bad. Really bad. And it's starting to sink in that he might actually lose Cas, his husband, his husband of only five fucking minutes. _Why?_ What was Cas doing there so late? What was he doing there _at_ _all_? Nothing makes sense, and he pinches himself again for the hundredth time, just to be sure he isn't in some lucid nightmare. He now has an angry red mark on his forearm, bruising starting to show in the shape of his nails and he stares at it, transfixed. Cas would hate to see the mark, he always hates to see Dean’s skin marked with any bruises or cuts but in his line of work it happens occasionally. The last time Dean was in a hospital, he was the patient. He had been injured in the line of duty, not critically but it had shaken them both up. He had been chasing a suspect through town, late at night, and didn’t look both ways at an intersection. He went up and over the hood of a speeding Mustang to crash painfully onto the tarmac, breaking his arm and his collarbone and winding up with plenty of cuts and scrapes for Cas to fret over. He had smacked his head on the ground, hard, and blacked out, waking up hours later with a concussion and with no memory of what had happened, only Cas’ anxious face and wide blue eyes, and the smell of disinfectant. That was almost exactly a year before Cas’ proposal. But that… That doesn’t even compare to what has been inflicted on Castiel tonight. Because that was an accident. And this was intentional. Whoever attacked Cas in that alley had thought it through, and didn’t plan on Cas living to tell the tale.

“Brother,” Benny pulls him back into the conversation with a hand on his knee. “You gotta listen, cher. I know it's hard…”

Dean swallows and nods, staring at his clenched fists as Webber firmly but gently tells them of Cas’ other injuries. Broken radius and dislocated elbow, probably from trying to flee from his attacker. Broken ribs, most likely from being kicked. And, in Webber’s own words, ‘injuries conducive with a violent rape’, which makes bile rise in Dean’s mouth. Then another kicker: tox screen shows a date rape drug. Only traces, only enough to confuse him and dampen his reflexes, but it's there. Someone had drugged Cas, _his Cas_ , with the intent of harming him. Dean’s stomach lurches and he can't control himself: he only just manages to turn to the side before he's sick all over the chair and the floor beside him, and tears stream down his face as he coughs and chokes. Benny rubs his back and murmurs empty words of comfort while the doctor calls for a nurse who appears as if by magic and shoves a cardboard tub under his mouth. He vomits again, the tangy, acidic smell of bile triggering a second wave of uncontrollable nausea and he sobs in between retches. His hands clench down on Benny’s arm tightly and he gives in to his grief as it hits in a violent, unrelenting wave.

“Cas… _Cas_ ,” He’s gasping for breath as tears pour down his cheeks and Benny pulls him into an upright position and hugs him tightly. “Who did this… I’ll kill them, I’ll find them and I’ll fucking kill them… _Cas_!”

“I know, brother. And I’ll hold the bastard down while you do. We’ll find them, cher. And Cas will get through this. You’ll both get through this.”

“What if he dies?” The words spill from Dean’s lips without his consent. “What if he dies, Benny? I can’t lose him, I _can’t_. He’s my whole life, he’s everything. It’s _me_ , I’m meant to be in the firing line. It’s _my_ job that’s dangerous, anything bad should happen to _me_ , not him. He’s a _librarian_! He’s meant to be _safe_! I’m meant to keep him safe!” The words come out in wild, hiccoughed cries and he clings tighter as Benny murmurs into his hair. Dr. Webber has vanished, giving them space and time, and Dean’s vision is blurry through his tears. Dimly, he hears someone call his name then Sam, his younger brother, is crashing to his knees in front of him and cupping his face, eyes wide and horrified. Benny passes Dean over to Sam, and they hold each other tightly as Dean cries it all out, terrified and feeling as though the world has stopped turning.

Later, after years have passed in Dean’s slow-moving concept of space and time, a different doctor appears with a younger woman in tow, and their faces are solemn.

“Dean Winchester? I'm Derek Shepherd, I'm the neurosurgeon assigned to Castiel’s case.” The word ‘neurosurgeon’ sends a bolt of fear right into Dean’s stomach. “This is my colleague, Dr. Meredith Gray. We want you to know Castiel is in very safe hands and we’re going to do everything we can for him.”

Dean doesn’t trust his legs to hold him up and Shepherd places a hand on his shoulder to stop him from trying, taking a seat opposite him instead and steeling his fingers, clearly considering his words carefully. He’s worried. Cas’ head injury is bad: the guy hit him from behind as he was trying to crawl or stagger away, and the tyre iron caught him behind his ear, fracturing his skull and causing internal bleeding. The initial CT scan is inconclusive thanks to the swelling, and they’re planning to monitor him closely but Dean needs to prepare himself that Cas might need emergency surgery. And that he may or may not recover from this. It doesn’t sink in. The words just don’t hold any meaning to Dean. He listens, tries to understand, but he can’t. His hand is in Sam’s lap and being gripped tightly but he can barely feel the touch. He stares ahead, unseeing, and just nods as the doctor queries whether he’s understood or not. Right now, right at this second, there’s only one thing he wants to know.

“Can I see him?”

“Not yet,” Shepherd, bright-eyed and gentle with dark wavy hair, looks regretful but firm. Behind him, the face of his colleague is kind yet pitying, and Dean hates that look. He wants nobody's pity. “Another hour or two. We want to monitor him closely and we want to run another CT if anything changes at all. I’ll let you know when you can go up.” He places a hand on Dean’s knee and Dean stares at it as though it’s an alien appendage. “I’m so, so sorry. Please know we’re doing all we can. I know that the waiting is the hard part. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Then he’s gone and Sam is trying to talk to him, but Dean just can’t. He can’t listen, can’t speak, can’t function. The man he bases his whole life around is upstairs in a cold, unfamiliar room and to all intents and purposes he’s dying. The life is ebbing from his body and doctors with scalpels and machines are keeping him alive. Dean buries his hot face in his hands but the tears won’t come. Cas has a head injury and it’s bad. Cas might need further surgery and he’s up there alone. Cas has been stabbed. Cas has been raped. The Detective in him knows that it won’t be long before officers turn up, if they aren’t up there already, to take DNA samples from the unconscious body of his husband who can’t consent to anyone touching him. Dean has to consent on his behalf and probably already has, his scribbled signature on forms he didn’t read the only evidence that they’re allowed to do what they need to do to find this guy. Because they _will_ find this guy. And when they do? He’s going to wish he was dead.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice is close by and he sounds like he’s been trying to get his attention for a while. “I’m going to try and get some more information from the doctors, OK? Where’s Benny?”

“He’s…” Dean’s mouth is sticky and his voice doesn’t want to work properly. “He’s gone to our place to get Cas’ laptop. Gonna try and work out what the hell he was doing there.” He turns wide, traumatised eyes on his brother. “He was at home, in bed. I talked to him, Sammy. Like, a few hours ago. He couldn’t sleep. I talked to him until he felt better and… and we said goodnight. I told him I’d be home before dawn and… and that I’d make him breakfast…”

More tears come, sliding helplessly down his cheeks. It shouldn’t be like this. He should be walking in the front door of their little house in the suburbs with the white picket fence and the dog kennel in the garden. Cas loves their neighbourhood, loves how green it is and loves the restaurants and bars, frequently taking Dean to sample new cuisine or to see the decor of a new cafe he's found. He should be walking up the stairs right now, quietly so as not to wake anyone, and pushing the bedroom door open. He should be rolling his eyes at Ruby, curled up at the foot of the bed keeping Cas company while he sleeps. He should be climbing onto the bed, on top of the sheets and fully clothed, hugging Cas close and kissing his neck until he wakes just enough for them to exchange warm morning kisses, then he should be going back downstairs to make coffee and prepare breakfast. Cas is an early riser, is always up with the dawn, wandering downstairs in his patterned PJ pants and cable-knit sweater, rubbing his eyes and kissing Dean good morning. Whispering, ‘morning, husband’ against his skin and smiling. Cas should be smiling.

Cas is dying.

“Dean.” Sam takes his shoulder. “Go outside and get some air, OK? I’ll talk to the doctors and see if I can get any more information, go get us some coffee and I’ll meet you back here in twenty. He’ll be alright, Dean. He will. He’s strong, you know it. You both are.”

But the look in Sam’s eyes doesn’t brace his words. He looks terrified, a man trying to comfort his older brother when he knows the outlook is bleak. Dean just nods, and he’s alone a moment later. He rises on unsteady legs and somehow manages to find his way outside. Dawn is threatening, the skies turning pale, and the wind is cold on his exposed skin. He leans heavily against the wall, all his weight braced on one hand, and tries to get himself under control. Tries to remember what he does for a living and how he should be reacting. But, as he well knows, there’s no rule book on trauma. No list of instructions to follow. He should be an expert in grief but he’s floundering. Raw, all-consuming anger rises up within him and he grits his teeth. Who the _fuck_ did this to Cas? To _them?_ He should be upstairs with Cas, reassuring him and holding his hand, not out here unable to do fucking _anything_! ‘Wait’, the doctors told him. ‘There’s nothing you can do but wait. We’re looking after him.’ _Wait._

“ _I_ should be looking after him!” The words leave him in a ragged sob. “That’s _my_ job! _Mine!_ ”

He doesn’t register the pain as his fist hits the brick in front of him. He hears the crack, sees the blood splatter the wall and feels it on his face. But he doesn’t feel it, it doesn’t hurt. So he does it again. And again, and again until it _hurts_ and he’s sobbing with his forehead against the wall, trying in vain to claw himself back to some semblance of composure. It takes a while, but he manages, and when he lifts off the wall to walk back inside the sound of a car pulling away from the hospital draws the attention of his bloodshot eyes. It’s a cab. And, almost without realising what he’s doing, he raises his bloodied hand to hail it.

He doesn’t have to stand out here and _wait._ He doesn’t have to do nothing while Cas’ life hangs in the balance. He can’t go up there and perform miracles, but there’s one thing he knows for sure he can do.

His job.

*

**February**

“Hey. Heart Eyes. Snap out of it.” Sam snaps his fingers in front of Dean’s face with a smirk, waving a beer at him with the other hand. He's caught his brother red-handed: staring with sickly-sweet goggle eyes at his new fiancé. It's so gross he could puke, but he's genuinely really happy for them both. They're clearly in love, have been for a long time, and marriage is only natural progression once a couple have moved in together and bought a dog. Well, Dean acquired Cas’ dog, more like. As if on cue, Ruby noses at Sam’s hand and he grins down at her, ruffling her ears.

It's a chilly February evening and he and Jess have descended on Dean and Castiel for a beer and burger night. It's turned, as it always does, into a wine and board game night at the request of Cas and, surprisingly, the backing of Dean. His brother had shrugged, open-armed with his palms up to the ceiling as if to say, ‘whatever he wants, he gets’ and Sam had grinned tremendously. Dean Winchester, being told what to do. He never thought he would see the day.

He likes Castiel tremendously. He remembers the week they met vividly because Dean just couldn't shut up about the cute guy he had met at a bar and how they had talked about their favourite authors for hours and it had all felt so natural. Apparently the bartender eventually had to ask them to leave because they'd stayed an hour past closing, and Castiel had been so embarrassed that he had tipped the guy all his cab money and wound up stranded and unable to get home. That was Dean’s excuse for them sleeping together on their first date. Dean had even given his number out the morning after, a very rare occurrence and a sign that the guy must be something special and Dean had been like a lovesick puppy for ages afterward.

A few weeks later, his brother had appeared at Sam’s house, drunk and vengeful, and Sam had been so alarmed he had dragged him inside and forced an espresso down him, then had demanded he talk about what was going on. Dean had, in broken sentences amid threats of violence, divulged to Sam that Castiel had been abused by an ex and that he still bore the physical scars of the violence. Dean had managed to keep his cool during their date, comforting and reassuring Cas that it didn't change how he felt, but in the privacy of his car on the way home he had seen red and wanted to rip apart the monster who dared injure Cas in such a permanent way. It had been the first sign that Dean was in love; he had never felt or reacted so strongly to anyone before and when Sam informed him of that fact his brother had been stunned into silence. He had repeated the words ‘I'm in love’ over and over again until they were just one long, garbled slur. Then, going against all of Sam’s hurried advice, he had called Cas up and told him so - then had been shocked when the call was abruptly ended with a freaked out, ‘oh, God, Dean’. They had only been on four dates.

But it worked out in the end. They had got past the drunken confession of love and can even laugh about it now. It will certainly be in Sam’s best man speech at the wedding, and probably in Castiel’s too. It's one of Cas’ favourite stories to tell: Dean calling him up an hour after their date and slurring that he loves him and that they should get married. He jokes that they've actually been secretly engaged since then, and Dean always smiles and blushes scarlet.

Right now, Cas is bundled up in a sweater and scarf, complaining of the cold while Dean attempts to light the fire that he let go out while he was busy staring at his lover. His beer is abandoned on the table, Jess is setting up the Monopoly board, and Sam is just watching them all with a grin, drinking and snacking on salted cashews. Ruby is nosing about, licking Castiel’s hand occasionally and snuggling close to him. She had been at the shelter, two days from euthanasia, when a battered and beaten-down Cas had wandered in, seeking comfort in canine form after splitting from the partner who threatened his life. She had been his lifeline and he her’s. And Dean had been well informed on date one that Cas came with the dog, no compromises. She sheds her white fur everywhere, drools on everyone's lap if there's food around, and always barks excitedly at the postman, but she's loved by everyone who meets her. She's even going to be in the wedding, wearing a doggie bow tie and sitting at their feet in the pictures.

According to Cas, she was the first real love of his life. Because they don't talk about the years before her. Ever.

*

**Present Day**

Dean steps out of the car on shaking legs and approaches the perimeter fencing. A quick flash of his badge is all it takes to get him through; he's still in his uniform and nobody tends to question a Homicide Detective at the scene of a violent crime. His bloodshot eyes scan the officers and the forensic team for familiar faces and he spies a couple, so he turns away from them quickly, knowing he shouldn’t be here. He’ll be sent away if anyone sees him, anyone who knows that he’s connected to Cas.

To the victim. He wants to spit the word from his mouth, never to speak or think it again. Victims aren't people he knows. They're unfortunate people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, people with families who love them and mourn them, people Dean deals with then closes the door on. But now, he's more involved than he ever thought he would be in his wildest nightmares. Castiel is a victim. Fuck. His hand throbs painfully and will probably need an x-ray but he managed to wipe most of the blood away and the cuts on his split knuckles have stopped bleeding now.

He shouldn’t be here, for a hundred reasons. He hopes Chief Harvelle has kept it quiet that the situation is connected to one of their officers. But he draws a breath in deep, feels his lungs expand until it hurts, and walks down the alley to the end, where two guys that he doesn’t recognise are crouched over taking photos of the numbers on the concrete. The markers that show the presence of some form of evidence. Blood, DNA, clothing, a weapon, anything that would indicate the presence of the victim or the attacker. He steels his nerves, clenches his shaking hands, and tries to pull on his mask. Homicide Detective Dean Winchester, at your service. He’s almost convincing.

“Talk to me, guys.” His voice shakes but that’s all right. These two don’t know him, don’t know that he normally sounds so much more confident and in control. He can do this, bluff his way through. He needs to know what’s happening, what’s happened, and what he needs to do. “What happened here?”

One of them glances up and straightens. He’s scrawny, a little goofy-looking, and had a kind smile. “Officer Winchester, right?”

Fuck. “Detective Winchester. Do I know you?”

“No, sir. But I know you by reputation, of course. I didn’t know you were assigned to this case, aren’t you from Homicide? Oh!” The guy’s confused expression suddenly clears. “The vic died, right? That’s why you’re here? Damn. Well, we ain’t surprised. Nobody was gonna walk away from this, not from the looks of things. Guess the only good thing is the poor SOB didn’t suffer any more, right?” He offers Dean a wry smile and it takes every ounce of control not to slam him against the wall and knock him unconscious.

“He’s alive.” The words come as a whisper and he has to repeat them. “He’s alive. I want to know what happened here. Talk me through everything.”

“Sir? Are you alright, you look a little pale.” The second guy stands up, frowning and stripping off his latex gloves.

“I’m fine. Answers, please.” It’s a struggle to talk. He thinks of Cas, alone, back at the hospital and he regrets coming. But he needs to know. His hand throbs painfully.

“Well, the majority of it all happened here.” The second guy gestures to the area they’re standing in; right at the end of the alley way by a chain metal fence which is padlocked shut. No chance of escape. Claustrophobia threatens and Dean swallows in reaction. “Shreds of fabric, buttons from a pair of jeans found over there… the rape definitely happened here.”

 _Jesus_. The way the guy says the word chills Dean to the bone and suddenly makes him think: this is how he talks of his crime scenes. So clinically, so detached, as though there isn’t a person involved. A family. He goes cold all over and forces himself to listen as the guy continues.

“We’ve already swabbed blood, saliva and semen samples. Doesn’t look like the attacker used a condom which is good for us, and like gold dust to the profilers. A guy willing to commit rape and attempted murder but not bother to cover his tracks? Rare. Have they taken DNA samples from the vic yet?” Dean shakes his head, although in truth he doesn’t know. He blocks the mental images from his mind of officers checking in Cas’ mouth to see if he managed to bite his attacker, checking under his fingernails for blood or scraps of tissue, looking between his legs… “Looks like the guy came to at some point. Tried to drag himself away.” The forensics expert takes a few steps, pointing at the ground and at the wall; Dean follows close behind, head swimming. There’s a bloody handprint on the corner of a dumpster, low down. Cas had been crawling, dragging himself away, trying to get to safety… Dean sways and a hand settles on his arm. It’s the first guy, looking concerned.

“Sir? Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine… what’s your name?” His tongue sticks to the top of his mouth and his hand aches.

“Fitzgerald, sir. Garth Fitzgerald IV, sir, Evidence Tech.”

“I’m fine. Fitzgerald, talk me through the rest of it.” Floodlights have been set up, illuminating everything so brightly that it could be the middle of a summer’s day. A chilly, awful summer’s day. Cas loves summer…

“He got to about here,” Fitzgerald takes over telling their findings, swiping at the ground with his foot just shy of a line of tape and a small number eight on a plastic card next to a parked, burned out car. “Then the guy caught up to him. Either that or he stood by and watched his victim’s escape attempt because damn, the vic won’t have been in any shape at all to try and move quickly. Again, something else for the profilers. He knifed him…” Dean swallows a mouthful of bile. “Once…” There’s a puddle of tacky, almost dry blood. “Then again…” A second, larger puddle. “Somehow he managed to drag himself a bit further, then collapsed. Tried to get up and then…” Fitzgerald mimes swinging a tyre iron and Dean’s vision whites out for a second. There’s blood on the wall, splattered on the window of the car and pooled on the ground. So much blood. He knows head injuries bleed like hell, always has done, but knowing who the blood belongs to gives the whole scene a totally different aspect. “And this is where the civilian found him and called the cops.”

“Right…” Dean’s voice sounds far away to his own ears. Cas was so close to the street. So close to the back door of the gay bar they met in all those years back, and nobody came to his aid. Nobody ran to help. He suffered through this hell alone, and he tried so hard to escape. Was he thinking of Dean? Was he calling for him, begging for him to come? Was he screaming? Crying? Both, neither? What was he thinking when he knew what was going to happen to him, did he fight even harder? Did he…

“ _Winchester_!” Chief Harvelle’s voice cuts into his haze and he jerks, stunned, having almost forgotten where he is. “Dean!”

Her hand clamps down on his arm and she spins him around to face her. He goes and almost stumbles, nausea rising as Fitzgerald’s words echo in his ears. Through glassy eyes he sees his impression of swinging a tyre iron again but when he blinks the tech is staring at him, shocked into silence by how awful he clearly looks.

“Dean,” Ellen’s tone is urgent now and she grips him by both arms. “What the hell are you doing? Why are you here? Why aren't you at the hospital? Oh…” She releases him and covers her mouth with a hand. “No… he didn't…”

“He's… alive.” The words are bitter on his tongue. His hand throbs a he clenches it. “It's bad. He's…”

He needs to sit down before he falls and Ellen seems to sense that at the same time Fitzgerald does. They guide him out of the alley and then he's sitting in a cop car, in the back seat with the door open and his head in his hands. He should never have come here. His mind is swimming, his vision clouded with both the known and the unknown, and a few miles away Cas is fighting for his life and Dean _left him_. How could he do that? Why did he think this was a good idea?

Ellen is talking into her cell, sending him mixed expressions of agony, concern and frustration, and a moment later she's standing over him and nudging him into the car.

“Go on. In. Wally is taking you back to City. I don't know what you were thinking Dean, coming back here.” Her voice is kinder than her words. “You need to be with Cas right now. Let us do our job, you do yours.” She touches him on the arm and he stares up, desperate. “We’ll get him, Dean. I promise you that. Yeah, this is Harvelle…”

She's talking into her cell again and closes the door gently on him. He leans against the window and watches his colleagues secure the crime scene, watches the techs do their work, take their photos, log their evidence. He wants to go home. Wally, a guy Dean only knows in passing, has turned on the siren presumably to get him back to the hospital faster and he thanks him silently. He wants to go home. Wants to crawl into bed with Cas and fall asleep in his husband’s arms, and wake up to smiles and sweet kisses, wants to complain about the dog hair and laugh as Ruby jumps on them for a morning cuddle.

He just wants Cas.


	3. Chapter 3

Cas… Cas doesn't look like Cas. Dean is standing in the doorway to the private room in ICU where they've taken Castiel, and he can't bring himself to move any closer. His own hand is bandaged, two fingers splinted and he'd refused painkillers: he wants it to hurt. He wants to feel even an ounce of the agony Cas felt, because he's come to the conclusion that he deserves it. His job is to protect people, and he couldn't even protect Cas. He failed. His entire body tenses at the word and Sam touches him lightly on the back.

“It's all right, Dean. You can go in. Dr. Shepherd…”

“I don't care, Sam.” Dean’s voice is icy, robotic. “I don't give a fuck, Sam, what anyone says. It's Cas, man. _Cas_.”

He isn't making much sense, he knows. But Sam seems to get it and doesn't push him to enter the room again. His brother had clearly wanted to tear him a new one when he arrived in the cop car with Wally but had hugged Dean instead and sat him down with a cardboard cup of warm coffee in his hands and waited by his side for Dr. Shepherd to appear. That was a while ago now, and he's finally been given permission to go up and see Cas. He's settled in the ICU and Dr. Shepherd has cleared him for visitors. But Dean is frozen, the feeling pulsing through his veins recognisable as terror. He's afraid, afraid of what he's going to see when he approaches Cas’ bed. Sam is behind him, trying to calm him, and Cas’ neurologist is at his bedside: if there's ever going to be a good moment for him to see Cas for the first time, this is it. With support from both his family and the medical team. But he can't move, not even an inch.

Dr. Shepherd glances up from writing on his clipboard and gives Dean a warm, encouraging smile. He’s a calming presence and Dean finds he trusts this man to save Cas. If anyone can do it, it's Shepherd. He's up near Cas’ head, reading something from one of the monitors, something that would never make sense to Dean but likely tells the neurosurgeon everything he needs to know about his patient’s current condition. The machine beeps and Dean swallows.

“It's all right, Dean. You can come in.” Shepherd pockets his pen and sets his clipboard aside. “You should come and see him, let him know you're here.”

Steeling his nerves, drawing a painfully deep breath and gripping the doorframe, he walks into the ICU and approaches his husband’s bed. Cas is hooked up to so many wires and monitors that it makes Dean’s vision blur, but the most traumatic for him is the ventilator slowly pushing air into the lungs of the man he loves. They've made the decision to put Cas into an induced coma using a dose of barbiturates, and Dean’s hand had trembled so badly when he signed the consent form that he had torn the page with the nib of the pen. He pauses at the foot of the bed, unable to move any closer, and feels Sam’s presence at his shoulder, hears his shocked inhale as he sees Cas for the first time. He doesn't look at his husband’s face, not at first. He looks at his arm, the one nearest to him which is in a cast from his knuckles up and Dean’s gaze follows the fibreglass bandages up, up over Castiel’s forearm to his elbow. The golden tan of his skin stands out so starkly against the white and all Dean can think of is Cas in the garden during summer, on his knees planting the flowers he loves to tend and smiling over his shoulder as Dean brings him lemonade to quench his thirst, Ruby trotting at his heels. His gaze travels across Cas’ chest, across the blandly patterned hospital gown to his other arm, grazed but otherwise unscathed - at least from the assault - and he wants to reach for him. Wants to take his hand and tell him everything will be OK. But he can't make himself move any closer.

“Dean,” Shepherd’s voice is soothing to his overwrought nerves. “It's all right. Come closer, come to this side.”

He's talking quietly, apparently sensing how close Dean is to truly snapping, and it helps. He manages to make his legs work and approaches Shepherd, still unable to look at Cas’ face for fear of what he's going to see. He's been wracking his brains to try and think about the last time he saw Cas and the last things they said to each other but it's all a blur. Was it when he kissed him goodbye before Cas left for work? It must have been but he can't remember it. Dr. Shepherd guides Dean towards a chair and he sits, woodenly, his legs unable to hold him up any longer. He's now staring straight at Cas’ hand resting on the sheets, unmarked and skin smooth - at least until his forearm but Dean doesn't look up that far - and the neurosurgeon follows his gaze.

“Do you want to hold his hand?”

Dean stares through a wall of tears. “I don't want to hurt him.”

“You won't.” Shepherd carefully lifts Cas’ limp hand, mindful of the IV taped to the back of it, and Dean reaches forward to take it in both of his. It's the feel of Cas’ warm, familiar skin on his that brings it all home and he leans forward, both elbows on the bed, and presses his husband’s fingers to his forehead, closing his eyes. The constant low beep of the heart rate monitor combined with the rhythmic inhale-exhale of the ventilator grates on his senses and eventually he can't avoid it any longer. He opens his eyes and, pressing Cas’ fingers to his lips, turns his head to look at his partner’s face. He tries his hardest to pull down his professional mask, the one that allows him to detach from emotional situations and just take in the facts, but he's too exhausted. He can't do it. And Cas… just doesn't look like the man he knows, and that fact alone makes it so hard to accept.

Looking past the tube going into his mouth and the tape keeping it from shifting and chafing his skin, he doesn't take in what he sees for a moment. Cas has clearly taken a beating, there's no doubt about that. His cheekbone and temple are mottled blue and yellow and there's hints of dried blood at his lips and nose. Most of his dark hair is obscured by bandages which taper off round the side of his head and his thick eyelashes rest too firmly on his ashen cheeks. Dean has always thought people in comas looked to be sleeping, but Cas doesn't. He looks on the edge of death and he grips the warm hand tighter with his own, trying to ground himself and remind himself that Cas _isn't_ dead, that he's a fighter and he's strong, and that Shepherd and his team are going to save him and make this right again. His chest rises and falls slowly in too strict a rhythm for Dean to even pretend it's natural. He isn't sure how long he sits and stares at Cas, but eventually Sam’s conversation with Shepherd breaks through the white noise in his ears.

“He's very strong, and he's fighting hard,” Shepherd is saying. He has the clipboard back in his hand and his arms folded across his chest. Dean stares at the wrinkles in his coat where his elbow is, and thinks of Cas’ broken arm. “We’ll do another CT scan tomorrow and see how he's doing. I don't want to say anything to give you too much hope at this point because he's in a serious condition, but if the swelling has gone down and we’re starting to see some pupillary response when we reverse the sedatives then I'm cautiously optimistic. But you have to prepare yourself, Dean,” Shepherd turns to him with serious, studious eyes. “For him sustaining lasting damage from this assault. I can't say what kind,” He hurries to add, sensing an interruption. “It's too early to tell. But this kind of head injury takes time to recover from. It could be something very minor, a slur in his speech or patterned memory loss, or it could be more profound. We’ll know more in twenty-four hours.”

“Can he hear me?” Dean adjusts his grip on Cas’ hand, stroking his wrist and arm, feeling the way his honeyed skin turns from smooth to rough and twisted beneath his fingers, scarred, so familiar yet so alien to him right now, and turns his attention back to his husband. “If I talk to him, can he hear me?”

“We like to think so,” There's a sympathetic smile in Shepherd’s voice and Dean nods once in reaction.

He wonders if the neurosurgeon knows about Cas’ other injuries. From the… Co _me on, Dean,_ he berates himself. _You have to learn the word. It's happened, it's happened to Cas and you're both going to have to deal with the aftermath. Learn the word and learn how to cope with it._ _Because Cas will have to._ Shepherd hasn't mentioned anything in relation to Cas’ rape, but then again why would he? Should he? Should Dean ask? But how would he go about asking how bad Cas is hurt in that sense?

“Doc, we know what's happened to him.” Sam’s voice quakes a little. “The rest of the… assault. Can you tell us if he's going to be OK? Physically?”

Oh. That's how.

“Physically, he should make a full recovery.” Shepherd seems confident in that answer. “And we have a team he can speak to for support, which we always recommend after trauma like this. I'll get Grey to write the contacts down for you.”

“Thank you.”

They talk a little more but Dean tunes them out. He sits and watches Cas, elbows propped up on the bed and Cas’ hand clasped in both of his, pressed against his lips. Before he knows what he's doing, uncaring of the other people in the room, he starts to talk quietly.

“I'm so sorry, Cas. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you. But I'll get us through this, I promise. I'll make it all right again, I swear it to you. I don't care how long it takes, I don't care what you need from me, I'll make it right. And whoever did this to you…”

His voice cracks and he trails off, closing his eyes. He’ll kill them. He’ll get to them before his colleagues do, before anyone does, and he’ll rip them limb from limb for what they've done. Cas doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve pain and fear and uncertainty, or lasting damage from an assault that should never have happened. Cas is the kindest, most caring person he's ever met, everyone says so. He's got a big heart, full of love, and always, always tries to do the right thing. He doesn't deserve to be lying here right now. He doesn't deserve any of this. He pulls his chair a little closer and extends a shaking hand - his fingers brush Cas’ cheek and, when there's no response at all, Dean crumbles. He can't be strong any more. He can't carry on without Cas. He lowers his head to the bed by Cas’ shoulder, pulls his husband’s hand into his chest and holds it there, and lets the tears come.

*

**April, Five Years Ago**

“Cas! Hey, Cas!”

A familiar voice is calling to him from a booth near the back, a little too enthusiastically, and Castiel blushes and smiles. The diner is so typical of Dean: retro, colourful, lively, and with cheesy rock music and food to die for. And he can see his date now that the waitresses have moved out of the way - Dean’s wearing a battered brown leather and is smiling, waving at him, and Castiel is reminded all over again just how handsome he is. Dirty blonde hair, pretty eyes, a smile to die for… Cas feels his throat clench with his excitement to be on this date. He really, really likes Dean. Like, a lot. He hopes today goes as well as the last few have done.

He takes his seat and Dean hands him a menu, leaning over the table to plant a bashful kiss on his cheek.

“You look great.”

“Thank you.” Cas blushes _again_. He should really see someone about this, it's becoming a real problem since Dean appeared on the scene.

His outfit is entirely new. He had spent an age in front of his closet, staring at the mass of plain pants and characterless shirts before deciding that he couldn't go out to meet Dean looking like he'd just wandered in from work. So he had spent the majority of his afternoon at the mall, taking awkward photos of himself in changing rooms and texting them to his twin brother, Jimmy, who is someone important at some flashy, modern tech magazine in New York, and who is unfairly and effortlessly stylish. Jimmy always jokes that he got the looks and Cas got the brains, and it's actually pretty true. Cas’ job as an archivist at the city museum library isn't exactly glamorous, and Jimmy’s job of (apparently, according to him) saying yes to attractive posters and magazine spreads doesn't exactly challenge his intellect. But they're both happy in their lives so they figure they both win. Eventually, with some persuasion from his twin, Cas had settled on dark denim jeans paired with a soft cashmere sweater with the finest horizontal pinstripes and a black blazer thrown over the top. Black ankle boots complete his outfit and, for the first time in a while, he knows he looks good. Dean’s gaze roves over him and there's a spark of hunger in his eyes which makes Castiel feel both excited and anxious. He picks up his menu to distract from his burning cheeks.

“The burgers are so good here. And the hot dogs,” Dean chatters away excitedly as Cas peruses the menu. “And the cheese fries, we _have_ to share some. You'll love them, I promise.”

“I'm sure I will.” Cas lowers his menu, infected by Dean’s enthusiasm and gazes warmly at him from across the table. “It all looks so good that I can't choose. I'll have whatever you're having.”

“Really?” Dean’s face splits into a wide grin. “Awesome. I choose the best food, I swear. You'll be in culinary heaven.”

“I hope so.”

The waitress takes their orders - burgers with double cheese, bacon, BBQ relish, all the side orders Dean can think of plus milkshakes _plus_ two beers - then finally they're free to relax and chat properly. Cas, as always, worries he won't be interesting enough for Dean who seems to lead an extremely hectic life as a cop, recently promoted to crime scene investigator. He's full of stories, both horrifying and enthralling, and Cas feels shabby in comparison. But it seems genuine when Dean asks him about work, and when Cas tells him he's been starting to translate some ancient scripts from Aramaic into Latin Dean’s jaw practically hits the table.

“Is that a joke? You're joking, right? You can't do that?”

“I can, actually.” Cas colours, yet _again_. “I have a particular interest in historic languages and translating texts. It's not the main part of my job, but it's the part I enjoy the most. I,” He blushes further. “Enjoy it as a hobby.”

“Wow.” Dean seems stunned; he sits back in the booth with his palms flat on the table. The green of his v-neck sweater really brings out his eyes, and the fabric hugs his biceps enticingly. “Cas, that's…” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “Look at you, Mastermind himself sitting here with a dumb cop. I bet you're wondering where my doughnuts are right about now.”

“I don't think you're dumb.” Cas frowns, the concept utterly lost on him. “You're an incredible person, Dean. You're out saving lives and protecting people while I'm surrounded by dusty old books. I'm surprised you haven't fallen asleep by now, listening to me talk.”

The waitress appears before Dean can respond, giving Cas a welcome distraction. He stares fiercely at his food, old insecurities welling up inside him. He knows he's not very interesting, he's been told that plenty by… others. Dean doesn't need to pretend. But before he can glance up and say anything, Dean’s hand snakes into his field of vision and cautiously takes hold of his.

“You're fascinating, Cas.” Dean’s eyes are magnetic and Castiel feels his heart stutter in his chest. “I love hearing you talk about your work. Don't ever let anyone make you feel inferior, because you're far from it. You're easily the smartest guy I've ever met.”

They smile at each other for a long moment before the shriek of a passing child jars them back to reality, and soon they're both tucking into their food with relish.

“This is really good, Dean.” Cas almost swoons at the first bite of his burger. “I don't have much time to cook or go to restaurants, so this… makes me very happy.”

“Well, I'll have to cook for you on our next date, then. Teach you some tricks.” Dean smiles, a smear of ketchup on his bottom lip. Cas resists the urge to lean over and lick it off, a totally uncharacteristic desire for him to have.

“A cop who cooks? Now I know I'm in heaven,” He grins, trying his hand at flirting. It seems to work because Dean’s eyes sparkle at him across the table.

“Oh, I'm full of surprises, Cas. That I can promise you.”

They talk for hours. They smile, laugh, and Cas has the best time ever. He can't remember enjoying another person’s company so much for a long time - if ever before. Dean is sweet, charming, and seems to really like him, if Cas’ slightly rusty people skills are anything to go by. They've finished dessert (shared a slice of apple and cherry pie with a side of ice cream sundae) and Cas is confined he's gained four pounds just from the last hour. They're holding hands across the table and the night has grown dark outside, the windows of the diner reflecting their love-struck expressions as they watch each other.

Dean’s fingers, which have been absently stroking the back of Castiel’s wrist while they talked, have now moved up a little to brush against his forearm, just under his sleeve, and he jolts back in reaction then, feeling guilty for pulling away, reaches for his milkshake glass as a distraction. Dean’s eyes widen a fraction but he doesn't say anything, and for that Cas is grateful.

He hasn't decided yet how to approach the subject of his past with Dean but he knows it will be a short, to the point conversation and it won't be discussed again. He knows he has to tell him, at least that's what his therapist has said, but the idea of it makes his skin crawl. Dean surely won't want to see him any more after finding out Cas has such a traumatic past, after learning that he's damaged goods. Dean is wonderful: smart, charming, funny and incredibly sweet under all his false bravado. He could have anyone. And it seems like he wants Cas, but surely all that will change when Cas tells him. When he shows him the scars. And he has to, of course he does. It's April, so he can be excused for wearing long sleeves but for how long? And what happens if Dean wants to become intimate with him? He’ll have to get undressed for that, and then Dean will see. He’ll see everything. Anxiety spikes and he feels his palms start to sweat in nervous reaction. The backs of his thighs hurt, where they're pressed against the chair. It's psychosomatic, of course, but the pain feels real. He drains the rest of his milkshake, stalling, trying to decide what to do. Should he tell Dean now? Is the fourth date too early? But Dean is gazing at him from across the table with a mixture of trepidation and concern and Cas is drawing a blank when it comes to excuses for pulling away.

“Dean, I, um…”

“I'm sorry, Cas, I didn't mean to…” The vague gesture Dean makes with his hand is accurate. He didn't _do_ anything. Didn't do anything wrong, at least. It's Castiel who has the issues.

“It's alright. I…” He sets his glass down in front of him and toys with the straw, staring down into it as though it can somehow provide him with a way out of this conversation. It can't, so he takes a deep breath. “There's something I should probably tell you, before we get more involved. Not that I'm assuming we _will_ get more involved, of course,” he hurries to clarify, embarrassed to think Dean may see him as jumping the gun. “But… I’d like to. Because I like you, and I hope you like me. So… just in case. There's… there are a few things you should know. About me.”

“Like what, Cas?” He can tell Dean is trying to sound light, but there's a note of concern underlining his words. “Are you on the run? A serial killer I need to arrest? A celeb in disguise?”

In spite of himself, Castiel smiles. A celeb in disguise, well, that sounds a lot more fun than the truth. “No, Dean, none of that.” His right hand goes unconsciously to his left, covering his forearm through his clothing. Dean’s gaze follows his movement. He casts around once more for a lifeline to get him out of telling his story then, resigned, starts to talk. “I've only ever had one serious relationship before. It was with a friend of my father’s and it was… difficult. It was a poor match to begin with and I should have listened to everyone’s concerns, but I was twenty-five and headstrong, so I thought I knew best. He… we were happy to start with. But then, after a couple of years, things really started to change, and… he became… things… deteriorated…”

*

**Present Day**

Benny calls to check in. They talk for a while, Dean answering in monosyllabic grunts while Benny tries to reassure him that the cops are out hunting for the assailant and that they're putting together all the pieces they can to try and form a profile, a picture of how this happened, why, and who is responsible.

“I was there, Benny…” Dean’s lips don't want to work properly as he voices something he's been mulling over in agony for hours. “Before. I drove down that street a couple hours before it all happened. Why didn't I stop? Look around? What if…” He can't articulate the rest. What if he _drove past_ while all this was going on? While Cas was being…

“Cher, stop. Don't do it to yourself. You couldn'ta known. No way. Don't torture yourself. We’ll get this guy, put him behind bars, I promise, brother.”

His cheeks are wet with tears but he nods mechanically. He can't change the past, and no amount of beating himself up will alter that fact. Dean doesn't remember what else he says to Benny, but he does remember learning that Cas’ laptop and his own have been taken to the station and will be scanned for clues as to why Cas was out in the middle of the night, and to see if anything can link him to a possible suspect. Dean gives Benny their passwords and disconnects the call shortly after. He knows his friend wants to be there with him but right now the best thing Benny can do is to start hunting for this guy. Give Dean a head start. If anyone can find this son-of-a-bitch, it's team Winchester-Lafitte.

Shepherd and Grey come back, and Grey shines a light into Cas’ eyes while Shepherd watches and makes notes. Dean watches them work. They have an easy camaraderie together, as if they've known each other or worked with each other a long time. Subtle glances, the brush of hands here and there… Dean recognises the signs. They're involved. He's still holding Cas’ hand, doesn't think he’ll ever be able to let go.

“How long have you been together?” The words spill out before he can properly formulate them and damn, he did _not_ mean to ask that. But he needs a distraction desperately, has been sitting alone at Cas’ side for what seems like months, and he's clinging to the first thing he can think of.They trade a glance then Grey answers.

“A while.”

“Us, too.” Dean strokes his thumb in slow circles over the back of Cas’ hand. “Almost five years.”

“That's a long time. You must be very happy.” Grey is watching him with a small smile, her long hair tucked behind one ear. She doesn't look particularly approachable, but maybe she's one of those people you warm up to after a while.

“We are.” He watches Cas’ face for any sign of life and, finding none, sighs. “I can't believe someone would do this to him. To us. It must have been…” _Terrifying_. “Was it…” _Random? A hate crime? Was Cas just in the wrong place at the wrong time?_ “I wish I could…” _Go back in time. Protect him. Do something._

“Just being here is enough right now.” Shepherd assures him, writing something on his clipboard and giving Grey a pointed look. “We’ll give you some privacy. But don't hesitate to call one of us if you need anything, or if you're concerned.”

Concerned. Dean bypassed concerned hours ago, what he's feeling now is cold, bitter fear. Fear of losing Cas completely, fear of him not returning the way he was, fear of what Dean himself will do without him. And fear of what he’ll do when he gets his hands on the guy who did this. He has all that to deal with and more when Cas wakes up. _When,_ not if. Because of course Cas will wake up. The other option is… unfathomable, and it makes him feel nauseous to even touch on it. Cas _will_ return to him. He has to.

But for now, all Dean can do is wait. He can sit and hold Cas’ hand and talk to him, try and reassure him in any way he can. But beyond that, he's helpless. And it's killing him.

It's been twelve hours since the attack.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam eventually manages to persuade Dean to go home and rest, but it takes some doing. He only agrees to go when he hears that Jimmy Novak’s flight from New York has touched down and that he's only an hour away. The thought of leaving his husband, even for thirty minutes to go home, shower, and change, fills him with fear. What if something happens while he's gone? But he manages somehow to ground himself and tell himself that Cas will be OK without him for a short time. And that Jimmy is more than capable of picking up the phone if anything happens.

“I'll wait for Jimmy, Sam, then I'll go. At least let me wait for Jimmy. He deserves,” Dean’s voice cracks. “He deserves to hear it from me. I'm Cas’ husband. He's my brother-in-law. It needs to be me who tells him.”

He doesn't expect Jimmy to have taken this news well, not at all. Nobody would. But when the elder Novak twin walks out of the elevator and down the corridor towards him, Dean barely recognises him. Jimmy Novak, if possible, has clearly taken all this even worse than Dean. Normally composed, energetic and confident Jimmy is an endless ball of life - it's one of the reasons he and Dean don't click particularly well. Dean finds him too much, too excitable and lively, whereas Cas is a calm, tranquil presence which he finds peaceful and reassuring. But this Jimmy, the one who has arrived in Kansas City Hospital straight off the plane with tears in his eyes and vengeance in the tension of every muscle is a far cry from the man he usually is. His blue eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, sparkling with fear and bitter anger, and he strides down the hallway with more purpose than his expression suggests, clearly desperate to be at his twin brother’s side.

Dean raises a shaky hand to greet him and is thrown when Jimmy just glares icily at him and roughly tries to push past him, blinded by the need to be with Cas. He steps back in shock, too numb and wrung-out to fight, and it's Sam who wraps an arm around Jimmy’s shoulders and forcibly pulls him away from the door to ICU. Jimmy fights, dropping his leather duffel bag in lieu of pushing against Sam, but he's badly matched in physical strength and is held back against his will.

“Jimmy, wait. We need to talk to you first-”

“Get the hell off me, Sam.” Jimmy tries to twist away, tears glistening in his eyes. He's clearly just as feisty as always, doubly so now that his brother is in danger. “Let me see Cas.”

“Jimmy, let Dean explain…”

“Explain what?” Jimmy’s voice is thunderous and he stills in Sam’s arms, trembling, fixing Dean with a venomous glare. “You said you'd look after him! You _promised_ you would! Where the fuck were you when this happened? Why weren't you _there_?” Tears spill down his cheeks, wetting his lashes, and Jimmy chokes on a sob. “How could you let this happen?”

“Stop it,” Sam shakes him, gently but firmly, his own face clouded with grief. “This isn't Dean’s fault. It's nobody's fault, nobody but the asshole who attacked him, man. Please, don't do this.”

Dean is too shaken and too white-faced to fight back as Jimmy breaks free of Sam’s hold and pushes the Winchesters aside roughly to get to Cas. But as he reaches the doorway he freezes up entirely, hand gripping the doorframe for support in an eerie mimic of Dean less than twenty-four hours previous. A sharp intake of breath is the first hint of his reaction, then it's followed by a wild, untamed sob and Dean has to grab Jimmy around the waist to keep him from collapsing. He forces himself to blur out the cruel words said to him in fear and anger; Jimmy has never been able to control his emotions, and Dean was the closest and easiest person for him to lash out at. He crushes down the voice in his head telling him that Jimmy is right, and feels Sam’s warm, reassuring hand on his shoulder.

When he finally reaches his brother’s side, Jimmy really breaks down, hysterical sobs and broken cries as he grips Castiel’s hand tight enough to bruise and leans down to whisper words of love and desperation into his hair. It's such a powerful display of sibling love that Dean is momentarily frozen, watching Jimmy as he moves back enough to take everything in and stroke Cas’ cheek, carefully avoiding the ventilator tube at his lips.

“Cas? Cas, come on,” Jimmy’s voice is tight with emotion. “You gotta wake up now. It isn't funny anymore, Cas, you have to quit playing around. Wake up. Cas, please. _Please!_ ”

Dean rests a hand gently on Jimmy’s shoulder, unable to speak past the lump in his throat and tenses as the elder Novak twin suddenly spins around and grabs him. But it's far from confrontational: Jimmy’s arms come tightly around Dean’s neck and he clings, shaking almost violently. They've never hugged before, not like this. Nothing more than a one-armed embrace at Christmas or at the wedding. This is new and it's overwhelming.

“He’ll wake up, Dean,” Jimmy murmurs into his neck. Dean’s arms come automatically up around him and they stand embracing, both biting back tears, while Cas lies motionless on the bed next to them, eyes closed as though sleeping peacefully. “Tell me he’ll wake up.”

Dean swallows, hard. “I don't know if he…”

“No.” Jimmy pulls back just far enough for them to lock gazes. His eyes are startlingly blue, just like Cas’, like miniature glittering galaxies around black depths. “Tell me he’ll wake up. I need you to tell me that.” He's gripping Dean’s shirt hard enough to rip it.

“He…” Breath leaves his lungs in a low hiss and he closes his eyes for a moment. “He’ll wake up. He will. I'm sure.”

Jimmy’s head returns to Dean’s shoulder. He doesn't smell the same as Cas, nor does he feel the same in his arms. For all their similarities, Dean notices the differences more. Even Jimmy’s hugs are different. “I know.”

*

Dean loves their house. He loves everything about it, from the subtle, neutral decor to the beautifully cultivated garden, and normally stepping through the front door brings him nothing but warmth and joy. He loves the rare occurrences when he makes it home for dinner, when the house smells of delicious home-cooked food. Buttery pastry for sweet and savoury pies: that's his favourite, and, luckily for him, Cas loves baking. He loves hearing the sound of the TV playing softly from the living room when he comes home a bit later, normally finding Cas asleep on the sofa with a book in his hand. He loves the sound of gentle piano music winding its way through the rooms, loves the sound of Cas humming to himself, and loves the smell of his clean, fresh cologne as it greets him and welcomes him home.

But none of those things greet him today. Today the place is cold and still, eerily silent, and for a moment Dean struggles to pinpoint the reason as to why it feels so entirely vacant. He's been home alone a hundred times, a thousand times, but it's never felt like this. Unlocking the door had been difficult, his hands had trembled so much he almost dropped the key. Standing in the hallway now, he's uncertain why the place feels so haunted, so utterly empty. Then it clicks: Ruby. She's not here. She's with Benny, down at the station, keeping him company while he delves into Cas’ laptop looking for clues. He suddenly misses her immensely and wants nothing more than her wet nose pressing into his hand in search of a stroke. He's never known this house without Ruby. Hell, he's never known _Cas_ without Ruby. When he met Cas, they lived apart for a year. Dean was sharing an apartment with Sam, and Castiel had a duplex downtown that he was pretty attached to. In the end, Dean moved in there and a few months later they started searching for a new place of their own - and eventually found the house of their dreams. Dean liked it, for sure, but when the realtor showed them around and Cas turned to him with stars in his eyes he knew this was the one. That he needed to get this place to make Cas happy. So he did, and he and Cas have been happy ever since.

He showers quickly, sparingly, and tugs an olive-green Henley on over a pair of soft, faded jeans without bothering to style his hair. He's back downstairs, pushing his sleeves up and casting about for his shoes, within ten minutes. The house is still silent, and now he feels chilled as he gazes about. He's torn between heading straight back to the hospital and turning the place upside down looking for clues. Cas’ phone hadn't been anywhere in sight, so Dean can only assume it was lost or broken in the attack as it wasn't with the personal possessions the paramedics had given to him. He wanders into the dark living room, all the curtains still drawn from the night before, trailing his fingers along the back of the couch and swallowing hard. Cas was likely right here, hours ago, reading. A copy of _The Handmaid’s Tale_ lies open, upside down like a tent, on one of the cushions. Cas planned on coming back to it and that thought alone brings a lump to Dean’s chest. He picks up the book and places it down gently, closed, on the coffee table. He doesn't turn on the lights or pull the curtains; it somehow doesn't feel right. Too much, too bright, too intense. He likes the dark, though it's eerie and far too quiet. He crosses the room slowly, with one destination in mind.

The piano. Cas’ piano. It's a black upright Yamaha, the keys well-worn and well-loved, and it's Cas’ favourite thing in the world. As though pulled by an invisible force, Dean moves over to it and runs a finger across the glossy black surface. The living room is dark and still, every corner shadowed, the only light provided by a cloud-dulled sun seeping in through the cracks in the drawn curtains. An echo of Cas playing something gentle and melancholy passes through the room and he shivers. Then he sits down on the stool and stares blankly at the sheet music propped up in front of him. He's looking at the last thing his husband played while sitting right here on this stool. It's the theme from Swan Lake, and Cas knows it so well he doesn't need to read the music, he has every note memorised. It's hauntingly beautiful and Dean loves sitting and listening to him play. He reaches out and carefully plays a chord, then manages another. The third rings sharp and he cringes, withdrawing his hand as though burned. This is Cas’ piano, not his. He shouldn't be touching it. He fingers the music instead, picking the book up from the stand and leafing through it with tears in his eyes and a heaviness in his heart. He was meant to learn how to play, but he hasn't found the time. Cas wanted to teach him, kept offering, but Dean always put it off. He always thought they had time. The book is full of Cas’ favourites, some with scribbled notes in the margins and at the top, and Dean pauses at a section of Adele songs. Not his type of music at all, too slow and romantic, but Cas loves the lilting ballads. He would give anything, _anything_ to hear the soft opening chords of _Hello_ right now. He closes the music book and squeezes his eyes shut, then reopens it at _Swan Lake_ and places it gently back on the stand exactly how he found it. Ready for Cas when he comes home.

Because Cas _is_ coming home.

He sits in silence in the darkened room for a long, long time, just staring into space.

He isn't ready to go back to the hospital yet. Cas is safe with Jimmy by his side, and Dean’s nerves need a break. He climbs back into the Impala, his legs feeling like they won't hold him up for much longer, and heads across town to the precinct. The city looks unfamiliar and out of reach, no matter how well he knows every street. It's as though something has changed in him over the last few hours; something has broken and he doesn't know how to mend it. The people on the sidewalks look unreal, like ghosts or apparitions. Or maybe it's Dean. Maybe he's the ghost.

He needs to feel like he's helping, he needs to be useful. A shy, pale-faced officer had come by the hospital that morning and taken a brief statement from him, but he's heard very little since then. Benny texts him daily, checking in, but he's starting to be driven crazy by the lack of progress on the case. He needs to see his colleagues and know for himself how they're getting on with finding Cas’ attacker.

Harvelle isn't there when he arrives, but Benny is and he wraps Dean in a tight hug that goes on for a long time. Dean clings to his friend, his face pressed into his neck and hands fisted tightly in Benny’s shirt, willing himself not to cry. When he pulls away his eyes are mercifully dry, but Benny looks tense and emotional, and regards Dean critically with a hand on his shoulder.

“How is he, cher?”

Dean shrugs. What can he say? “The same. They want to bring him out of the coma in a couple days if he improves. But… yeah. He's still out. I don't know what to think.” He tries to keep the tremor from his voice. “What if he doesn't…”

“He will.” Benny’s voice is firm, confident, and gives Dean a glimmer of hope. “Cas is strong, always has been. You'll get through this, Dean. You will. Now, c’mon. Got someone who wants to say hello to you.”

He takes Dean into a private room and Ruby leaps up when she sees him, whining and pawing at him, and he kneels down to bury his face in her soft fur.

“Hey, you.” She smells doggy and familiar; it's a small comfort. “Cas misses you. He can't wait to see you.”

She whines, pressing close, and her eyes are full of heartbreak. She knows something's wrong. When he settles in a chair at the desk, a hot cup of coffee plonked in front of him, Ruby curls up at his feet and he winds one foot around her, loathe to let her stray too far from him. She's one solid, living link to Cas who, right now, seems a million miles away.

“I need to ask you a few things, Dean.” Benny’s face is grave. “I've got your statement, but a couple other things might just help. You up for that?”

“Yes.” _No_. But he doesn't have a choice, and it's why he came here. “Whatever you need. Whatever helps us find him.”

“OK.” Benny exhales, reaches over to squeeze Dean’s wrist, then they start. They talk about Cas’ job, his home life, his hobbies, where he goes in his free time. Who he's been in contact with lately. What Dean knows about his whereabouts over the last forty-eight hours. Then the million-dollar question, and the one Dean is both dreading and ready for.

“Can you think of anyone who might wanna hurt him?” Benny glances up, pen poised above the notepad, expecting a negative answer. A negative answer Dean cannot give.

“His ex.”

The words spill out almost without his consent. He's been nurturing this idea ever since Shepherd left him alone with Cas, and in his own mind he's sure Castiel’s abusive ex-boyfriend is responsible for this. After all, Cas has no other enemies and the guy didn't hesitate to hurt him all those years ago. If they'd run into each other in the street, who knows what pathetic reason the guy would have come up with to attack Cas? He tries not to tug on the little voice asking _why_ Cas would be running into his ex in the middle of the night.

“His ex?” Benny’s eyebrows approach his hairline. “Tell me more.”

“I don't know his name. Cas would never tell me. I guess because he knew what I'd do,” Dean laughs bitterly. There's no humour in the sound that leaves his lips. “But he hurt him, real bad. He's all scarred up from what the son of a bitch did to him. So, yeah, if anyone got a reason to want to hurt Cas, it's gonna be him.”

“What can you tell me about him?” Benny is scribbling furiously, transcribing Dean’s words. “Where does he live?”

“Chicago, last I heard. But that's all I know, man.” Feeling redundant, Dean runs a hand through his hair for the hundredth time, sure it's standing on end. “Jimmy might know. I'll text him.”

He whips out his phone and taps feverishly at the screen. His usual spelling and punctuation evade him but he can't be bothered to correct his messages.

**{Dean} hows Cas?**

_{Jimmy} No change. Where are you?_

**{Dean} station. givin statement. what was Cas’ ex called**

_{Jimmy} Why??_

Dean’s breath leaves him in a hiss. He hasn't shared his theory about Castiel’s former lover being behind the attack. But now, as he talks to Benny, he feels more sure than ever.

**{Dean} just wanna ask him some Qs**

_{Jimmy} You think he did this?_

Dean can almost hear the cold fury in the Novak twin’s message. He can picture Jimmy’s entire body tensing, his brows furrowing and his lips turning downward with vengeful anger. He isn't sure why he's being so evasive - no, actually, he is. If this guy has _anything_ to do with Cas’ attack then Jimmy going off like a grenade and going after him could seriously jeopardise the investigation. And they need to catch this guy, like, yesterday.

**{Dean} dunno, need to look at all angles**

_{Jimmy} He lives in Illinois. Cas hasn't seen him in years, they parted on good terms. What makes you think it's him?_

Dean growls at his phone. Dammit, Jimmy, answer the damn question. And wait, parted on good terms? Are they talking about the same guy? He needs to talk to Jimmy in person about this, remembering with a sudden lurch that Cas once told him his family is blissfully ignorant of a lot of the abuse he suffered. He just hadn't realised _how_ ignorant.

**{Dean} name?**

There's a long pause, into which Benny and Dean both stare at the phone, waiting for it to light up with a response. When it does, Dean turns it to Benny with a grim expression. Now they have a place to start.

_{Jimmy} Ishim._

*****

**28th January**

Cas wakes, shaking. He's drenched in sweat, the sheets wrapped tightly around his legs, and Ruby is nudging frantically at him with her nose, trying her best to wake him up. He reaches blindly for her, sinking his fingers into her soft fur, and slowly his heart rate returns to somewhere near normal.

It was that dream again. The one where he's being held down, face down on a bed with a hand on the back of his head, and he's being whipped relentlessly for something that was a genuine accident. He remembers the blood-splattered sheets all too clearly, remembers his own chokes cries as he begged… it all felt so real, like it was happening all over again.

He scrubs a hand across his face and, sure enough, his cheeks are wet with tears. The backs of his thighs are burning, stinging with phantom pain and he runs his fingers across the scars just to check, just to make sure they aren't bleeding. They're fine, of course, but he touches a fingertip to them all obsessively, just to be sure. It's a thing he does when he wakes up from a nightmare: ensures his body is still his own, hasn't been violated, and that he's safe. He doesn't _feel_ safe, but that's par for the course after one of his nightmares. It takes time to come back to himself, to leave the past in the past. Ruby jumps up on the bed, spins round in a circle once or twice then flops down by his side and he turns to her, pressing his face into her soft fur.

“He was here, Rubes,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “He was doing it again. I couldn't escape him.”

Ruby whines, distressed, and Cas snuggles closer. When he had first found her, the wounds on his thighs were already healed. It was his chest and forearm that were still in the final stages of healing and he had curled his arms around himself protectively in a futile attempt at a hug while the shelter worker showed him a couple of dogs that 'might be suited to his lifestyle'. At that point, he didn't have a lifestyle. He was lucky to have a life at all, and he just wanted a companion. Someone to come home to (well, someone to be at home with since he rarely left his new apartment) and someone to curl up with on the sofa when the memories became too much to bear. A German Shepherd, a Poodle, a squinty-eyed Pug and some sort of Spaniel had all been shown to him but he had felt no connection with any of them and was about to give up when an excited yelp came from the kennel at the far end of the shelter. The volunteer had shrugged, told Castiel that Ruby was 'a handful' but had introduced him to the bouncy Akita-cross regardless. She had gone to jump up at him then, sensing his discomfort, had retreated a few steps to sit down and watch him, then had offered her paw to him without him having to ask. When he knelt in front of her and she licked his nose for the first time, he knew they were meant to be and he took her home later that day. Since then, she's kept him safe.

He shivers as the sweat cools on his skin, and he misses Dean. The clock says Dean should be home soon, will be climbing into bed with him and kissing him and melting all his worries away. The past doesn't seem to matter quite as much when Dean is around, because he loves and accepts Cas no matter what. Nightmares and all. Scars and all. He knows Dean will protect him. His thumb brushes slow, circular motions on his forearm where the skin is twisted and wrecked, and he shudders. The remnants of the nightmare are still here and the darkness isn't comforting. He flicks on the lamp and shuffles the pillows until he can lean comfortably against them to read, Ruby pressed at his side, her nose twitching and her eyes watching him in close concern. She's so attuned to him, to his thoughts and feelings, that she can notice a shift in mood almost before he can. Definitely before Dean can.

He tries to think happy thoughts, unable to focus on the pages in front of him. He should try and sleep: tomorrow he and Dean are going downtown to pick out an engagement ring for him, one to compliment Dean’s. He hadn't thought to get one for himself, too focused on Dean, but now he feels like he's missing something and he can't wait to have a ring of his own. He traces the spot where it will go, his skin prickling, his own touch barely tolerable. He thinks of Dean touching him, stroking his finger like he's doing now, and relaxes a bit. He hates to be touched by anybody, only by Dean, and that was one thing when they first met that stuck with him. He didn't mind Dean’s touches at all. Gentle hands on his lower back, an arm around his shoulder, all soothing and reassuring but exciting all at once. It was then that he knew Dean was something special.

He hears the key turn in the lock downstairs, Ruby sits up with her ears pricked, and he smiles in spite of the chills that still stroke up and down his spine. Dean’s home. He can hear his fiancé moving about downstairs, humming classic rock songs, and when Dean finally comes up to bed he kisses Castiel and holds him close, chasing the nightmares away as they fall asleep entwined together.

*

**Present Day**

The hours pass at an excruciatingly slow pace, bleeding into days, and nothing changes. On day three, Shepherd reverses the barbiturates keeping Cas in a coma and then…? Then they wait. More waiting. Waiting this time for Cas to open his eyes, to sit up and ask Dean what's going on and where he is, to fall into Dean’s arms and embrace him. To be OK. To be here again. Because Dean can't take much more of this: Cas lying there, present in body but not in mind, watching as they days alter his face in minute increments. The bruising around his mouth and eyes darkens then pales as it heals. His jaw takes on the light shadow of unshaven stubble. His hair becomes lank and lifeless, greasy from Dean sitting and running his fingers through it, sticky from the adhesive bandages and the products used to wash the blood from it but not properly rinsed off. Shepherd checks periodically but it's usually Grey or one of the nurses that stop by to see how Cas is doing. On day four they remove the ventilator and Cas breathes on his own. Sam grins through his tears, Jimmy breaks down sobbing, and Dean just rests his forehead against Cas’ and thanks any god who may be listening. _Thank you. Now, give him back to me._

Dean has taken to talking to Cas. And when he has nothing to say, he reads to him. Or, if it's late at night and nobody is around, he sings. Quietly, sweetly, low ballads and tender love songs, the kind he knows Cas likes. He chooses songs they've sung together, while Cas’ fingers move across the piano keys and he croons the words, side-by-side on the stool. They normally do this at night, when Cas is awake and wired from work, and when Dean has just got in from a shift. He hopes that if he sings the right song that Cas will hear it, and will open his eyes.

The hours pass slowly, torturously, and every so often Dean falls into a fitful sleep with his head pillowed on Cas’ bed right near his broken elbow, Cas’ other hand linked with his own and resting on his chest - the steady rise and fall of his rib cage lulls Dean to sleep but doesn't keep him there. He dreams of his husband in many different scenarios but they all lead to the same place: Cas, dead, standing beside Dean in a cemetery and asking him why he was allowed to die. Why nobody saved him. Why Dean failed to save him. He jerks awake, gasping, and every time he has to wipe bitter tears from his cheeks.

The following days pass just as the others have done: with no change at all. Dean is becoming desperate, Sam is bitterly worried, and even Shepherd’s smile has taken on a hint of concern. Jimmy spends most of his time on the phone, the rest curled in the chair opposite Dean with blank, unseeing eyes. He only goes back to his hotel to shower and change, and had flatly refused the invitation to stay at Dean and Cas’ without his brother there. Dean gets it. The house just feels wrong without his husband’s presence.

It’s six in the morning and Dean is asleep in a chair at Cas' bedside, a culinary magazine open on his lap and in danger of sliding off onto the floor. He's been running on sugar, caffeine and pain for days now and, finally, he's crashed. His body aches, all energy depleted. He's spent all night in Cas' room yet again, refusing all suggestions made by the nurses that he goes home to get some rest. Sam is at their place now, house-sitting and looking after Ruby, Jimmy has gone to his hotel to change and lie down for an hour, and Dean has no reason to leave, not when Cas still hasn't woken up. Shepherd appears from time to time to check on them, shines a light into Cas' eyes and writes on his clipboard, but he's been very guarded in what he says about Cas' condition save for advising Dean to be patient.

"It isn't like waking up from a nap, Dean," He had said gently, only the night before. "It's more like waking up from hibernation. It's going to take time, days."

"But it's been days already!" Dean had been unable to keep the desperate frustration from his voice. "Almost a week since he was first brought in! Why isn't he waking up?"

"Give him time. We only took him off the meds a few days ago. His vitals are good, his latest head CT is looking better than ever... give him time, Dean. That's all you can do after a trauma of this magnitude. We just have to wait."

In a sudden rush of fury he had thrown the magazine and half-full coffee cup across the room at the word he's begun to loathe the most: _wait_. As quickly as it came, the rage vanished and he was half-sobbing as he tried to move past Shepherd to clean up the mess, but the doctor gently eased him into a chair and told him not to worry about it.

“Dean, as difficult as this is for Castiel, it's very hard for you, too. And I know you aren't taking care of yourself as well as you should, Grey has kept me well informed. You need to rest, drink water, try and eat something. If he wakes up, he's going to need your support.”

Shepherd had squeezed his shoulder and left, but Dean was shocked into tearful, frightened silence. _If_ he wakes up. Not when. _If_.

No. He clenches his fist, tightens his jaw, takes hold of Cas’ hand and kisses his cool fingertips. Not _if_. _When_. Cas _is_ waking up, and Dean won't admit defeat in any form. He's getting his husband back, then he's going after the motherfucker that destroyed them and he won't stop until the man is a cold, dead corpse beneath his fingers.

He keeps dozing off, his eyes falling closed only to jerk awake again as nightmares taunt him. He needs coffee, needs a stimulant to keep him awake. Cas is going to wake up today, he's sure of it. He picks the magazine up and deposits it on the table at his side, stands up and stretches, groaning at the aches in his body. He's wiped out, utterly.

"Cas, I'm gonna go get an espresso, help keep me awake. I'll be right back, I swear." He lifts Cas' hand to his lips and kisses his fingertips then sets it down on the bed, but just as he's about to let go he feels it. Cas' fingers spasm, gripping his, tightening for just a second then loosening, and Dean feels like he's about to have a heart attack. He grips Castiel's hand again, this time in both of his, and leans close as adrenaline swirls and begins to pulse through his veins. "Cas? Cas! I felt that, I felt you grip my hand. Can you hear me? Cas, can you hear me? Give me a sign, something, _anything_. I'm right here, babe, just tell me what you need."

It's there again, that simple twitch of his index and middle fingers, then his thumb, then Cas' hand very definitely closes around his. It's the lightest touch, a haunting shadow of the way they used to hold hands but to Dean, at that moment, it's like the break of sunrise after the longest night. He feels his eyes burn and his vision blurs for a second, then he's leaning over Cas and stroking his forehead, whispering to him and encouraging him to open his eyes. There's a sound at the door, then Dr. Shepherd is on the opposite side of the bed, checking machines and murmuring something to Grey. Sam and Jimmy appear right behind them, frozen in the doorway holding cardboard coffee cups. Jimmy’s eyes are wide with fright.

"Dean? What happened?"

"He gripped my hand, doc. I'm not going crazy, I swear he did. He did!" Dean is shaking with nervous excitement and Shepherd nods to him with a warm smile. From the doorway, Jimmy lets out a whine and Sam has to wrap an arm around his waist to keep him from collapsing.

"I believe you, Dean. I'm sure he did. Castiel?" Shepherd turns his attention to Cas, touching his face and lifting his eyelids to shine a penlight into his eyes, checking his pupils. "Castiel, can you hear me?"

And whether it's the light, their voices, or something else entirely, but Cas visibly inclines his head away from the light, towards Dean just a little, and his dark lashes flutter on his cheeks. He's breathing differently too, a little quicker, a little sharper, but it's there. Then he's blinking sluggishly, and his lips part as his hand tightens down on Dean's. A low cry of relief leaves Jimmy Novak’s lips at the same time as Dean lets out a low sob.

"Cas?" There are definitely tears in his eyes now, and he doesn't bother to blink them away. "Cas? You with me?"

And then, almost like he's dreaming, he's staring down into the most beautiful, brilliant blue eyes, eyes that he remembers falling in love with, and Cas is looking right back at him, through him, unfocused but present. The usual pretty, lively sparkle of his irises is dulled by trauma and exhaustion, but it's Cas, and he's looking at Dean. He blinks once, twice, then he focuses and, after a moment of silent confusion, the hint of a smile touches his chapped lips.

For the first time in over a week, Castiel is awake.


	5. Chapter 5

Cas may have finally opened his eyes and made some initial contact with Dean, but they're far from out of the woods. He responds only minimally to Shepherd’s words and only moves to cringe away from the lights shone into his eyes. He can't focus on anyone for more than a couple of seconds and slides in and out of consciousness fairly rapidly. When he is awake, he manages to hold onto Dean’s hand with shaky, jerky fingers but it's a far cry from what Dean had hoped for. He was so certain that when Cas woke up they would go back to normal and be able to start healing properly, together. But it looks like the road to recovery is going to be much, much longer than any of them realised.

For sixteen hours, Dean doesn't sleep. He doesn't rest at all. He doesn't dare close his eyes because he can't bear to think of Cas waking up and being alone. Not that he's alone at all: Jimmy is here, Sam has been back twice in the last few hours, and the medical team are always on hand. It's also that he wants to be there when Cas _finally_ wakes up for real. Talking, sitting up, the works.

It's early the following morning when he feels Cas’ hand tighten on his and he jerks upright; he was almost asleep, and he curses under his breath at his own stupidity and selfishness. Cas _needs_ him, what the hell was he playing at? The hospital room is dim and cool, and as he rubs his eyes he realises Cas is holding onto his hand tighter than he has done in the last entire day, and he leans in to see burning blue eyes gazing at him, dazed but focused, and his heart does a somersault in his chest.

“Cas? Baby, can you hear me?”

Slowly, really slowly, Cas nods. It's more a gentle incline of his head than anything else, but it's the most Cas has communicated since waking up so Dean, naturally, is ecstatic. He pulls his chair up close to Cas’ head and, still holding his good hand tightly, drapes his other arm across the pillow so he can play with the strands of his husband’s hair not covered by bandages. He's trying to keep the excited tremors from his hands.

“God, I've missed you so much baby. You have no idea.” Dean presses his lips to Cas’ hand, then holds their clasped hands against his cheekbone. “Was so worried you'd never come back to me. Do you feel all right, do you need anything?”

A muted, lazy shake of the head. Cas’ eyes don't leave Dean’s, and he swears Cas is thinking ‘no, only you’. At least, he selfishly hopes he is. He cuddles in as close as he dares, wary of disturbing the wires of the heart rate monitor that disappear beneath Cas’ hospital gown, or the IV lines that have been sustaining him with fluids and medication for the last week. He wants to climb up onto the bed and lay down next to Cas, curl up at his side and sleep the rest of the night away, but he's afraid to. It feels like too much, a step too far, getting that close. After all, he doesn't know how much Cas remembers and he doesn't want to scare him by pushing too much when his husband isn't really able to ask him not to.

“Do you know where you are?” He whispers softly, his breath catching in his throat when Cas again shakes his head minutely. Memory problems, Dr. Shepherd had told him, were very likely. But Cas seems to recognise him so he takes that as a good sign. “You're in the hospital, baby. Been here for a few days now. Something… something happened, you got hurt. But you're gonna be just fine, got a great team here taking care of you. And me, Jimmy, Sam, we’re all right here. Not leaving til you're ready to walk out of here. ‘kay?”

Cas studies his mouth as he talks, almost like he's trying to lip-read, and Dean has another mini panic attack at the idea that Cas can't hear him, but that's swiftly put to rest as his hand is squeezed more firmly than ever and when Cas parts his lips to try and speak for the first time. It takes a couple of tries, tongue darting out to attempt to moisten his dry lips, and Dean has to lean in close to hear the huskily-whispered words, but when he does he has to bite back tears of emotion.

“You… weren't hurt…? Were you…?”

Dean takes a moment to hide his face against their clasped hands.Cas is lying in a hospital bed completely out of it, has been for days after unspeakable trauma, and yet his first worry is _Dean_. It makes him feel both loved beyond belief and unworthy. Cas’ sole focus should be on himself right now, and it's Dean’s job to ensure that.

“No, baby, I wasn't hurt. I'm absolutely fine, don't worry about me.” He blinks until his eyes feel less damp. “Just need to focus on gettin’ you better. Do you…” He doesn't want to ask. “Remember anything?”

Cas shakes his head again; his eyes are glazing over and he's slipping into unconsciousness once more. But before he does, he tugs gently at Dean’s hand, a very definite plea for them to be closer, one Dean cannot ignore. He shifts until he's sitting up on the bed, one arm under Cas’ shoulders holding him, and when he feels the warm weight of Cas leaning into him he almost weeps. He listens as his husband’s breathing evens out, and holds him as the dawn breaks.

When Jimmy appears an hour later, freshly showered and rested from four solid hours in his hotel, Dean smiles and breaks the news that Cas spoke to him.

“Only a few words, Jimmy,” he hastens to add as the Novak twin rushes to his brother’s side. “But it was enough. More than enough.”

“So he's going to be all right?” Burning, bright blue eyes focus on him and in that moment Jimmy Novak reminds him of a frightened child, pleading for reassurance that the monster under his bed isn't real. He's never known Jimmy like this. The man he knows is cool, snarky, confident, and never has a care in the world. His life is fast-paced and glamorous, and his only real attachment seems to be to his brother. Dean likes him well enough - mainly because he has to, he's Cas’ brother - but has never got to know him; he has a feeling this is likely to change over the forthcoming weeks. And right now, it feels like his responsibility to console the grieving twin.

“I think so, Jimmy. It's gonna take some time, but… I think so.”

*

He isn't entirely correct. The day passes, as the rest of them have done, painfully slowly as Cas sleeps and only stirs once every few hours to crack open his eyes and reach for the nearest person - always Dean or Jimmy. Shepherd appears to ask him questions and to try to rouse him from his semi-conscious state, but it's hard going. Dean tries to cling to the silver linings: Cas is awake, Cas remembers him, Cas _doesn't_ remember the attack. He supposes he shouldn't be disappointed that his husband isn't out of bed and walking around, expectations like that are just unrealistic.

Late in the afternoon, Shepherd appears to do a neuro exam, looking tired and weary but hopeful. He shines his damn penlight into Cas’ eyes, almost dropping it as Cas clumsily bats it away, and smiles at him.

“That's it, that's what I want to see. You putting me in my place, Castiel. Now, I want to try a couple of things, are you up for that?” Cas shakes his head no, but Shepherd ignores him. “I need to try and assess your motor skills and coordination. After head trauma, we need to make sure everything is working as it should be. I won't keep you awake long, I'm sure you need your rest. But humour me, won't you?”

Cas frowns; it's actually scarily close to the icy glare Castiel has mastered when displeased, and Dean smiles. It's good to see glimmers of him shining through. Cas tries to turn his head but Shepherd persists, stowing his pen and clipboard and taking Castiel’s left hand in his own right. Then he gently takes Cas’ other hand, mindful of the fibreglass cast and the busted elbow.

“Castiel.” Shepherd’s voice is firm, a decibel louder than normal. “Try and grip my hands, both of them at once. Your right one will feel weaker, definitely. But I want you to try.”

Cas glares mutely again, but as Dean watches his fingers tighten down on Shepherd’s in jerky spasms. The neurosurgeon nods, clearly pleased.

“Very good. Now,” he shifts their grip so their hands are palm to palm. “I want you to try and push my hands away from you. Push as hard as you can, you won't hurt me.”

Dean hasn't a clue what purpose these little exercises are serving, but if they help Cas return to normal then he's all for them. This time though, he frowns as Cas seems to struggle to put any energy into pressing his hands against Shepherd’s. They try it three times, a note gets written on the clipboard, and Shepherd moves on to other tests, his expression becoming more serious as the minutes pass. It descends into a very vivid frown when he asks Cas to hold onto a plastic cup - Dean thinks it's a ridiculously simple thing to request, but is stunned into silence when it slips through Cas’ right hand three times in a row to skitter onto the floor. Shepherd says nothing, just writes something down. Cas lets out a whine of unhappiness and exhaustion, turning to Dean with sadness in his eyes.

“I'm so tired, Dean,” he whispers, blue eyes locking onto green in the dim light - the evening has drawn in while they've been running through their tests. “Please... can we stop?”

“Yes, Castiel.” It’s Shepherd who answers, replacing the cap on his pen and scooping up his clipboard to hold it against his chest, arms crossed. “You've done very well, you should get some rest. Dean, a word?”

Outside in the corridor, Shepherd is grim-faced and Dean doesn't have to wait very long to find out why. “I'm a bit concerned about his coordination, Dean. The lack of strength is one thing but an inability to do basic tasks s a little more concerning.”

“But he held my hand! He's _been_ holding my hand. Surely that's a good sign?” Dean takes both hands through his hair, trying to keep calm.

“It is, but taking your hand and doing more complex movements? Two very different things, and I'm concerned about the latter.”

“Can you fix him?” Dean sets his jaw. “Will it get better with time?”

“I don't know, Dean. It could be due to the broken elbow, but I doubt it. It's more likely to be a side-effect of his head injury. Discoordination isn’t uncommon, and it does tend to improve with time. We just have to…”

“Wait. Yeah, I get it.”

He turns and storms back into Cas’ room, closing the door on Shepherd firmly. He wants to be alone with his husband. Cas is sleeping again, his left arm stretched out towards the empty chair which Dean now sits down to occupy. He threads their fingers together and sighs. Fuck waiting. Fuck _all_ of this. He just wants their lives back.

*

**February**

“A golf resort? Really?” Dean pulls a face. “ _So_ not us.”

“I suppose you'd be more at home in a garage forecourt,” Cas sniffs, then yelps with laughter as Dean whacks him with a cushion.

“Damn straight. Marquee, live band, plenty of beer… sounds like a real party to me.”

“Sure does,” Cas leans into his side and he wraps an arm happily around his future husband. “Let's just do that.”

“And deprive your mother and Jimmy of the chance to host a society soirée?” Dean guffaws. “Sorry, babe. Think you were closer with the golf resort.”

“Don't remind me.”

Dean never imagined he would be into wedding planning. It never crossed his mind. He always assumed he would leave the details up to his bride-to-be (or, in this case, groom-to-be), but he hadn't counted on how much he would actually enjoy making plans with Cas. They laze about after dinner, throwing ideas back and forth and coming up with wilder and crazier plans the more alcohol they knock back with their meal. Currently, Cas has himself convinced Jimmy will make his entrance in a helicopter, while Dean is wondering if he can have two Best Men: Sam, and the Impala. They snuggle together on the sofa, laughing at how ridiculous their ideas become and, eventually, their soft giggles turn into gentle, sweet kisses. And after a short while, those kisses turn heated.

They make love right there on the sofa. Dean strips Cas slowly, kissing every inch of skin as he exposes it, taking his time with the buttons of Castiel’s shirt and lapping at his neck and collarbones. He leaves Cas' shirt open, hanging from his shoulders, and his own pants only get pushed down as far as necessary. He savours the taste of Cas’ skin as it becomes damp with sweat, can't get enough of the tang of his pre-release as he slowly sucks and licks him to full hardness and beyond, and when Cas comes Dean swallows every drop of come and licks his lover clean. Then Cas pushes Dean over the back of the sofa and eats him out, fingering him deep and slow, until Dean comes with a wild, unrestrained cry. Then, before he can descend too far into afterglow, Cas makes good use of his ungodly refractory period and fucks him bare until they both come again, sweaty and still half-clothed and so, so in love.

*

**Present Day**

Morning dawns bright and chilly, but it brings with it some improvement. Cas is more coherent and the nurses even help him to sit up a bit so he can talk quietly with Dean and Jimmy. He's still confused, but he recognises them both and passes all the tests Dr. Shepherd throws at him, quizzing him on the year, the President, their location and random facts from his life. Dr Shepherd has Jimmy sit and run through a task with him, one which he excels at and seems pleased about: Jimmy holds up photos of all the important people in Cas’ life, and they're all positively identified. Dean whoops quietly at each answer, encouraging Cas, and feeling more buoyed as the morning wears on. He can't stop smiling and Cas returns it, shyly. When the nurse comes to change Cas’ sheets and help him clean up a bit, Dean and Jimmy are ushered out into the corridor and shooed away towards the cafe. They walk in silence, Jimmy collapsing into the nearest available seat as soon as they get there, relieved and wiped out, while Dean goes in search of drinks and snacks. On his return, he takes the empty chair next to Jimmy and, pitying him, hands him the steaming cup of coffee meant for himself. The exhausted-looking Novak twin gives him the briefest smile and accepts the beverage, sipping it and making a face.

“Tastes like dishwater.”

Dean snorts, smiling fondly. “You're more like Cas than you'd have us believe.”

“I raised him well.” Jimmy takes another sip, closing his hands around the warm cup and clearly taking some level of comfort from it. Neither of them comments on what he's implying; they both know Jimmy basically brought his twin brother up since his parents were so disinterested in their children that everyone who knows them wonders why they had them in the first place. “He knows good coffee when he tastes it.”

“He sure does. He's taught me that much, at least.” He pauses. “He's taught me so much. I can't imagine life without him, Jimmy.”

“Don't. He's going to be fine, Dean. It's just gonna take some time. You've got to give him time.” Jimmy sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

“I know.” Dean exhales, stretches out his sore muscles. Jimmy toys with the cup in his hands.

“Have they found anything? Anyone?”

“No, not yet. Benny called earlier: they've sent a team to talk to Ishim, they managed to track him down.” Dean clenches his fists as a wave of fury sweeps through him. He wishes he was on that plane, on his way to talk to Ishim. He can think of a few things to say. “He’ll call when they have news.”

“They asked me a bunch of questions about Cas’ scars.” Jimmy runs a hand through his hair, tilting his head and stretching out his neck. “The cops. The doctors, too. I don't know why, they aren't having any effect on his current condition, surely?”

“Well, they're looking for clues, Jimmy.” Dean focuses on his own fingernails, feeling Jimmy frown at the side of his face. “Anything that might link Cas to his attacker. They think…” Inhale, exhale, do it again. “They think Cas knows the person who did this. They don't think it's random. So they're looking into every possibility.”

“Right, I get that,” Jimmy says slowly, not sounding like he gets it at all. If anything, he sounds a little irritable, a little short, and Dean remembers why he doesn't get on with Jimmy very well and why they spend as little time as possible in each other's company. “But what do his scars have to do with anything? He's accident-prone, sure, but how does this-”

“He - what?” Dean sits back to frown at Jimmy. “What are you talking about, accident-prone? Cas is the most careful man I know.”

“God, you're lucky you're pretty, Dean.” Jimmy is definitely approaching exasperated. “Cas got his scars from a _kitchen_ accident, remember? So I fail to see how that accident…”

“Wait, _what?”_ A creeping feeling of dread is crawling up Dean’s spine. “Cas… Cas _told_ you how he damaged his chest and arm, right?”

Jimmy snorts and gives Dean a disbelieving look which slowly starts to morph into one of concern as he takes in the shock on Dean’s face. “He… fell. Badly, in the kitchen, and he landed on the stove. It… he was burned… Dean, why does your face look like that?”

“Jimmy…” Dean knows he must be white as a sheet, but this realisation is too much. Jimmy doesn't know. He doesn't know how Cas really got the burn scars that bisect his chest, he doesn't know how Cas’ arm got fucked up, he doesn't _know._ And that realisation ok top of everything else borders on unbearable. “He… Jimmy…”

“What are you hiding from me, Dean?” Jimmy’s face has closed off now and his expression is verging on dangerous. “What do you think happened to my brother?”

“What do I _think_ happened?” Inhale, exhale. Dean’s chest is growing tight, and panic grips him, forcing his words. “I _think_ he got those scars from the abusive asshole boyfriend who _held him down_ on the stove while it was fucking turned _on_ , and only let him go because he passed out from the pain. That's what _I_ think happened, Jimmy, because those were the words out of Castiel’s mouth. That's what he told me.”

Shit. He didn't mean for that to come spilling out, and he presses his fingers to his own lips in an attempt to silence himself. _Shit_. But… Jimmy _knew_ , right? He must have known at least a few of the details and put the rest together himself… _surely…_ And a memory surfaces now, them lying in bed and Cas winding their fingers together. Their heart rates returning to normal after their second time in bed together. Cas whispering to Dean that he's ashamed of his scars, Dean kissing him and telling him no, never be ashamed, that he's beautiful no matter what. Then Cas turning to him in the dark and saying, ‘Dean. My family doesn't know, not all the details anyway. I couldn't tell them. So… you'll never tell them, right? It would break my brother’s heart if he knew’. God fucking damn it. He thought Jimmy knew on _some_ level that what happened to Cas wasn't an accident. But he had no clue… _how_ could Jimmy not know? A nasty feeling has settled in the pit of Dean’s stomach. What else does Jimmy not know?

He opens his mouth to ask Jimmy what he meant by his message about Cas and his ex parting on good terms, but the expression on the young man’s handsome face stops him. He's ashen-grey, eyes wide and glazed, and as Dean reaches for him he jerks away and claps a hand to his mouth, clearly about to be sick. Dean looks wildly around for something for him to throw up in, but he's too late. Jimmy leans forward and empties the contents of his stomach all over the floor between his legs, choking and gasping and letting out a horrified sob as he struggles to catch his breath. Ashamed and horrified, Dean rubs Jimmy’s back and murmurs apologies as a nurse materialises with a bottle of water and a cardboard basin, and is more than alittle grossed out when Jimmy grabs his wrist with a vomit-slick hand.

“Dean…” His cheeks are wet with tears of reaction and he wipes his mouth shakily with a paper towel. “What the fuck did you just say? You… you _can't_ be serious. Ishim and Cas, they didn't have the best relationship but he would _never_ …” He covers his face with his hands as Dean just stares at him sadly, then he's up and out of his chair walking down the corridor towards the elevators and he doesn't stop when he's caught by the arm. “I need some air, Dean, let me go.” His voice is shaky and his eyes wild.

“Jimmy, please.” Shit. He hasn't a clue what to say. If he thought Jimmy literally had _no_ clue at all then he would never have said it so bluntly. He shouldn't have come out with it like that regardless, his emotions took over and he didn't think his words through. “I thought… I thought you knew…”

“You _thought_ I _knew_!” Jimmy shrieks, loud enough to draw the attention of everyone nearby. He's wild with distress, pulling away from Dean and backing up against a wall. “You think if I had _known_ that Cas was…” _Abused_. The word hangs in the air between them and Jimmy turns ghostly pale and his legs give out from under him; Dean only just manages to catch him and guide him down to the floor where he buries his head in his hands and tries in vain to control his tears. “He's my brother… he's my _twin_ , how could anyone…”

“I know, Jimmy.” Dean kneels on the floor beside him, wrapping an awkward arm around his shoulders, ignoring the curious stares of nurses and patients as they pass by. “I hate him for what he did to Cas. And if he's the reason all this has happened… I'll make sure he sees the inside of a jail cell for the rest of his life. I swear it.”

*

A full two days pass before Shepherd says, with a genuine smile, that Cas is improving and that he's pleased with his progress. Relief almost sends Dean to his knees, but instead he hugs Jimmy and they both grin like lunatics. Jimmy has taken the news about Cas very badly indeed, and Dean feels like utter shit for springing it on him. He's barely left Cas’ side other than to get something to eat or go to the bathroom, and has been withdrawn and sullen whenever anyone tries to talk to him, shrinking away from the nurses and hovering protectively whenever they come near Cas. Dean had taken a distraught Jimmy back to his hotel after the unpleasant revelation about Castiel’s past, and discovered the next morning that he had raided the mini-bar and drunk himself into oblivion alone, in an attempt to bury his feelings. Dean can barely look at him without suffering waves of guilt, but he tells himself it's for the best. Jimmy knows now, and now they can all move forward together and help Cas heal.

“He still has a long way to go,” Shepherd warns, the serious look drifting back into his eyes as he snaps the clipboard shut and hands it to Grey. “But I'm happy with him so far. We’ll transfer him out of ICU and down to a private room later. You can relax now, Dean.” He squeezes Dean’s shoulder comfortingly. “You've been by his side the entire time, you too Jimmy. Support like that helps a lot when patients are recovering. It's invaluable.”

While Cas is transferred to a light, bright room on the seventh floor, Dean heads home to shower, change, and check in with Benny. The house is still cool and eerie, and he doesn't linger long. Ruby’s absence is all too vivid; she's staying with Sam until Cas is ready to go home. He does, however, stop long enough to grab a bag and fill it with a few things he wants to take back to the hospital. The Impala growls at him as he drives, and he can think of nothing better than taking Cas on a road trip as soon as he's back on his feet, getting him the hell away from Kansas City and the hell he’s endured there. It's a small blessing that he doesn't appear to remember the attack, but Dean knows it will all very likely come to a head in the following weeks. But he can't worry about that now. Today the sun is shining, the skies are blue, and Cas is awake.

When Dean makes it back to Cas’ new room, it's almost like he's walking in on someone entirely different. Cas is sitting up in bed, propped against a small mountain of pillows, still looking pale and drawn but much livelier than he has over the past week. Clearly a change of scenery has done him a world of good. He's still hooked up to IV lines providing a constant stream of pain relief and medication, but the heart rate monitor is noticeably absent. His eyes have regained a little of their sparkle and he's smiling, although it's a small, exhausted smile - he's happy to see Dean. There are flowers adorning both bedside tables plus a handful of cards, and Jimmy is sitting in a chair by the window reading the _New York Times_.

“Hi, baby, how are you feeling?” Dean drags a chair up to the side of Cas’ bed.

“Better, thank you, Dean.” Cas’ voice is still husky from the tube down his throat to help him breathe. “How are you?”

“I'm fine, sweetheart. Glad to see you looking more awake.” Dean raises the hand holding a carrier bag full of personal items. “I brought you some things. I thought you'd want your own stuff around you.”

“That's very thoughtful, thank you.”

There's something a little off about Cas’ speech. His tone is detached and dull, almost disinterested, and he makes no move to reach for Dean at all. Shepherd has explained that Cas will be very up and down for the next few weeks while his head injury heals, so Dean tries to take it all in stride. Perhaps Cas’ trouble with his hand movements is what stops him from reaching out. Or perhaps he's just tired. He pulls out a small pile of books and sets them on the side table.

“I thought these would keep you busy if you want to read, if it doesn't hurt your eyes too much. You were in the middle of this one, I think…” It’s the copy of _The Handmaid’s Tale_ that he had found upside down on the sofa. “Although I think I lost your place. And a couple others to flick through if you're bored.” He pulls out some soft plaid PJ pants and a couple of Henleys, then a sweater and some warm socks. “And as cute as you look in that hospital getup, I thought these might be comfier.”

“Thank you.” That muted, almost bored tone again. Jimmy has glanced up from his newspaper and is frowning. “I appreciate the effort you've gone to.”

“Of course, Cas, anything for you.” Dean leans forward to brush back a strand of Cas’ hair, not missing the subtle flinch as his fingers make contact. His hand stills, unnerved, but he glosses over it. It's still Cas. An awful thought occurs to Dean. Does he remember, now? Is it coming back to him? The beating, the rape…? Reflexively he pulls back, worried to touch Cas in case he triggers a memory. He swallows, coughs to hide his discomfort and sets about putting Cas’ clothes away in the drawers. Shepherd has estimated another week at least in the hospital, thanks to the severity of his head injury, so Dean wants him as comfortable as possible. He's even idly toyed with the idea of sneaking Ruby in for a midnight cuddle, but knows he would have his ass kicked if anyone caught him.

He settles back down in the chair by the bed, Cas watching him quietly, and reaches into his pocket with slightly jerky hands. He has one more thing for Cas, one thing he's dying to give to him, has been dying to give back to him ever since he was first admitted.

“I brought you one more thing,” he hears himself saying, and Cas notices the glint of metal in his palm and his brows furrow with intrigue. “The medics took it off you for the scans and shit, and I've kept it safe. Knew you'd want it back as soon as. So… yeah.” He interlinked their fingers with one hand, toying with the ring in the other and allowing a small window of relief to open up inside him, feeling more positive and more at peace than he has in days. He's exhausted, close to tears with emotion and exhaustion, but he's pushing it all down for Cas. He can probably head home later and rest, if Cas continues to do OK, he's sure Jimmy can keep an eye. Then maybe tomorrow they can talk some more, maybe Dean can sneak up on the bed for a cuddle. He suddenly aches physically with the need to hold the other man, but settles for squeezing his hand and opening his palm to show him the ring nestled there. Cas’ eyes widen and he stares down at it, appearing overwhelmed. Dean smiles and adjusts Cas’ hand in his.

But before he can push the ring onto his finger, Cas snatches his hand back as though burned and gazes at Dean, stunned.

“What are you doing?”

A muted silence stretches out as Dean gapes, wide-eyes. Is this a joke, is Cas playing about? But the look in his eyes doesn't suggest so… he looks _freaked_.

“It's your wedding ring, Cas,” Jimmy says gently, leaning forward to put a comforting hand on his brother’s upper arm, just above the fibreglass cast. “Remember? Dean has kept it safe for you.”

“ _Wedding_ ring?” Looking horror-struck, Cas glances back at Dean, who feels a hollow pit of fear opening up inside him. At Cas’ next words, he feels every muscle in his body tighten with shock. “We’re not _married_. Jimmy, what are you talking about?”

Dean exchanges a scared, desperate look with Jimmy who seems to pull himself together quickly enough to formulate a response. When he speaks, his voice is gentle and soothing and he pushes Cas’ hair back off his forehead, mindful of the exposed surgical wound now that the bandages have been removed.

“You and Dean are married, Cas. You had a ceremony about four months back. You don't remember? We talked about this only yesterday?”

Cas shakes his head, focused entirely on his brother, and Dean tries to regulate his breathing. Shepherd had said to expect memory problems, he knew there were things missing and that there existed hazy patches in Cas’ memory, they already _knew_ Cas was struggling to recall the attack, but this… he never expected this.

“Well, remember Dr. Shepherd said you might have trouble remembering a few things?” It's clear Jimmy is doing his best to keep it together, speaking in soft tones in an attempt to calm his brother. “I promise you, Cas. You and Dean are married, I wouldn't lie to you about that.”

“But…” Cas turns round, worried eyes on Dean. “Why would we… I mean, we barely know…” His eyes drop to his own hand and he lifts it slowly. Dean realises immediately where his gaze has been drawn: to the pale tan line on his ring finger, the skin around it golden brown from hours spent in the sun. The tan line expertly covered by his wedding ring. He looks up at Dean and the lost, confused expression on his face is almost unbearable. “We’re married?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. You got yourself a husband.” Dean blinks back his tears and turns the ring over in his shaky fingers. More than anything he wants to push, to grab Castiel’s hand and jam the rim on, shake him until the memory falls into place. But he can't, gripped by fear and anxiety and panic, and he mentally pulls back, retreating into himself to save the pain of further rejection. “But if you're not ready for this then… I get it. I'll keep your ring safe…”

“I don't… I don't think I am…” Cas now looks dazed, warily watching Dean as though he expects to be pounced on. “Dean... I can't believe... we hardly know each other..." Cas shakes his head, confused and very clearly pulling back from Dean, retreating into himself and flirting with sleep once again. "If you don't mind…”

“No! No, Cas, not at all.” His words rush out, spilling from his lips too quickly and he doesn't miss the look of concern that Jimmy shoots him. “I'll hold onto it for you. I'll just go and put it… somewhere safe. I'll be back. I'll be right back.”

He shoves his chair away from the bed, determined not to cry in front of Cas, and a part of him hopes his husband will reach for him and extend some form of comfort. But Cas just stares up at him, nervous and bemused, just shy of shrinking away. He doesn't look at Jimmy, can't bear to see the heartache written on his face; he just heads for the door and down the hallway, vision blurred by tears.

When he eventually reaches a secluded alcove, he ducks into it and leans heavily against the wall on his forearms, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on his arms. He's gasping for breath. The pain in his chest is so strong he could swear his heart is breaking. Cas doesn't remember. His husband doesn't remember marrying him. He doesn't remember their vows, their words of love or their promises to each other. He rejected Dean. He looked horrified, so horrified…

Cas’ ring is clutched tightly in his hand and he squeezes down on it, trying to ground himself, trying to rein in the emotions swirling wildly too close to the surface.

He fails. And breaks down into anguished tears of bitter despair.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean Winchester isn't a crier. It's just not something he does. He doesn't remember crying when his mother died and he definitely didn't cry when his father passed away. His tears are in short supply, and are reserved only for when he feels at his lowest. A few times stand out starkly in his memory.

Sam, crying in bed next to him, six years old and hungry because their father had been out on a hunting trip for a few days and hadn't left them enough food or money. He had lain in the darkness with an arm around his brother, unable to comfort him as his own tears formed silvery tracks down into his hairline. He had felt so useless at that moment, so redundant and such a failure. He was only ten years old himself, but felt the weight of the world on his young shoulders.

Sam again, eleven, coming home with a black eye and telling Dean he got it because he was defending his ‘deadbeat of a brother’ after the school bullies picked on him for his shabby clothes and unruly hair. “It's your fault, Dean!” Sam had said hotly, his own tears glistening in his eyes. “You're supposed to look after me, why can't you do it right? Why can't you do anything right?” Dean had cried himself to sleep that night, silently in the motel bed next to his brother’s, and had woken up the following morning with an iron-clad resolve not to end up like his father. Of course, John Winchester had died three years later and never got to see Dean graduate or become a cop, but he knows he's done good. He's forgiven Sam for his harsh words, but he isn't sure his little brother has forgiven himself.

The proposal. He shed a tear or two then. And then, their wedding. Only the fourth time in his life when he hadn't been able to hold back tears. But not for the usual reason associated with weddings.

*

**1st August**

Their wedding has dawned sunny and beautiful, and the place looks incredible. Understated, simple, but with enough subtle details to keep Jimmy, Naomi Novak, and their high-society friends happy. Dean had kicked against most of it to begin with but eventually realised Cas just wanted to keep everybody happy, so he gave in. And, privately, loved every single moment of planning their day. It's the morning of the wedding now, their friends and family are assembled outside, and nobody can find Castiel. Dean has joined Jimmy and Sam in hunting for him, trying to ignore the tense knot in his stomach. They're getting married at Naomi Novak’s sprawling estate in the Hamptons, and Dean has scoured every inch of the place and is now in the kitchen searching for a drink. He needs to calm his nerves and ignore the clawing voice in his head telling him Cas has done a moonlight flit. Cas would never leave him at the altar, not with less than thirty minutes to go until the ceremony. _Never_. Would he…?

He gazes out onto the vast expanse of lawn, watching people mill about in their suits and pretty dresses. The heat is unbearable and he's already sweating and his shirt is damp beneath his jacket. Everyone they know and love is here, seated and chatting amongst themselves - apart from, apparently, the one person he loves the most.

“Dammit, Cas,” He mutters under his breath as he unscrews the cap on a beer bottle. “Where the fuck are you?”

Then, as if on cue, a clunk comes from the pantry just off the kitchen and Dean frowns. He follows the source of the noise, nudging the door open and, sure enough, he's found his fiancé. Cas has his back to him, head in his hands, and he looks every bit like a man about to lose the last shreds of his control.

“Cas? Cas, what's wrong?” He tugs the pantry door closed behind him and finds himself with an armful of emotional Cas. Cas _never_ cries. He's never, not once, seen him shed a tear. So seeing him so visibly upset is unsettling, to say the least. Then words he never thought he would hear spill from Cas’ lips.

“I can't do this, Dean. I just can't.”

“You… what?” Gently, Dean takes Cas by the shoulders and nudges him back, gazing at him in horror. “What do you mean?”

“I'm… I…” Distraught, Cas runs a hand through his hair, messing it up completely. “I'm not right for you, Dean. I'm not good enough. All your family and friends out there, they know it. I'm sure they do. I don't think I…”

“Cas, Cas, shh,” Dean cups his lover’s face and kisses him, effectively silencing him and tasting salt on his lips. “What the hell are you talking about, baby?”

Cas exhales, hard, clearly trying to regain control of himself. “I was getting dressed upstairs, Dean. Jimmy had gone to get us a drink and I just…” A hand goes unconsciously to his ribs, left side, his palm covering the spot where Dean knows the scars are the worst. Deep, skin twisted and thickened, the remnants of horrific burns created by direct contact with the intense heat of a stove turned up to maximum. “Why on earth do you want _me_ , Dean. You could have anyone.”

Dean doesn't answer. Instead he pulls Cas in close and kisses him, hot and open-mouthed, trying to convey all his love and adoration. He feels Cas tense against him then slowly melt into the embrace, clinging tightly.

“You're beautiful, Cas. Your scars are just a part of who you are,” Dean murmurs into thick, dark hair. Cas smells of cinnamon and vanilla.

“That's just it,” His voice is muffled against Dean’s chest. “I've got so much baggage, Dean. Why do you want to be with me?”

“Hey, what's brought all this on?” Dean pulls back just enough to look into Cas’ eyes. They've had this talk before, but not for a very long time. He thought Cas was secure, confident in their relationship. “Has someone said something?”

Just for a second, Cas’ eyes dart to the side, then he holds Dean’s gaze again. “No. Of course not.”

“Because if they have, tell me and I'll do some pre-wedding ass-kicking.” Dean pulls him close again. “You're my world, Cas. You really are. I've got baggage too, but when this shit comes up we just deal with it. Together.”

“But what happens if you get bored of me?” Castiel’s voice quivers slightly. “I'm not interesting, Dean. You could be with someone much more exciting…”

“Hey. Stop that.” Dean’s frowning now, emotions warring with each other to get to the surface. The idea that Cas feels like this is heartbreaking and he's feeling choked as he speaks. “I don't want anyone else, I want _you._ And you're plenty interesting, you just don't realise it. I love you for you, I wouldn't change a thing.”

“I want to believe you, Dean. But…”

“But?” Tears of anger and pain spark behind Dean’s eyes. “Cas, I love you. I _love_ you.” He says it again, and this time two glistening tears find their way down his cheeks. He buries his face in Cas’ soft hair, overwhelmed by his feelings for the other man and by how badly he wants Cas to realise how loved he truly is. He doesn't realise he's properly crying until he tastes salt, and sniffles a couple of times to quiet himself. “I just love you, alright? Please believe me, baby. You're my life.”

“I know. I love you, too, Dean.” Cas squeezes him tightly around the waist. “I'll try. I swear. Is everyone here?” He smiles, attempting to lighten the mood and Dean grins back, a little watery-eyed.

“Yup, all seated perfectly on their perfect chairs in their perfect outfits.” Dean manages a smirk as Cas smacks him had-heartedly on the arm. “They're all here, babe. They all want to see us become husbands.”

“Benny? Ash? Ellen? Did Charlie make it all the way from Washington?” Cas reaches up to wipe the remnants of tears from Dean’s cheeks, kissing him gently on the lips.

“Yep, all of ‘em. I can't wait for the beer and poker tournaments later.”

“My mother will have an aneurysm.” Cas smiles, his own tears still clinging to dark lashes.

“Excellent. One less in-law…”

“Dean!” Cas laughs, wipes his eyes, then returns to struggling with his bow tie. “I can't get this damn thing on, I hate it. I don't want to wear it at all.”

“Then don't.” Deftly, Dean tugs at one end and whips it off from around Cas’ neck. Then he fiddles with the top two buttons of his shirt. “There. Much better open-collar.” A hand through Castiel’s hair leaves it artfully messed up. “You look really sexy, babe.”

“A perfect look for a wedding.” Cas returns the favour, undoing Dean’s bow tie and shirt collar, and they both smile at each other, still pressed close in the cramped space of the pantry. “I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to get worked up. You know how much I want this, how much I love you.”

“It's fine, sweetheart.” Dean collars him and kisses his forehead. “Now. How about we go make honest men out of each other?”

And, grinning broadly and hand-in-hand, they walk through the kitchen and out into the gardens, and then down the aisle together.

*

**Present Day**

Dean wipes his eyes for what feels like the hundredth time. So much for not being a crier. He's cried more times in the last week than in his entire life put together, and he keeps waiting for the tears to run out. But he seems to have an endless supply; the horrifying realisation that Castiel has no memory of their marriage at all has been a bitter pill to swallow, and he isn't doing so good. Cas remembers him, that much is clear. But he's hazy on how long they've been together and, in his mind, they don't know each other well at all. Occasionally he comes out with a statement or a question that makes Dean jerk in shock, for it relates to something they've said or done in the past few months. But Shepherd tells him that Cas is likely recalling things with no real sense of time and place, and that he's confusing their timeline. The doctor hopes his memory will return with time, but can promise nothing. And that lack of certainty is what's killing Dean. Their lives had been so sure, so planned out. Cas is up for a very prestigious research grant at work and is considering a second pHD. They want to adopt another dog then, eventually, a child. But now, that plan is shot to hell and Dean can't even imagine the next two weeks let alone the next two years.

Right now, he's at home. Sam is in their kitchen making some dinner and Dean is on the sofa with Ruby, stroking her absently and trying to get himself together. Jimmy is with Cas at the hospital and Dean just… can't. He's worn out, mentally and physically, and needs some space. Cas isn't his usual self. Far from it. He's cool and detached, falling just short of shrinking away from anyone who tries to touch him, clearly uncomfortable. He's got patchy gaps in his memory, gaps which Jimmy assures him will be filled with time (he hopes), but Dean just can't get over the way Cas had recoiled from him. Before he can descend too far into grief, Sam hands him a bowl of Thai noodles and a beer, sitting down on the sofa beside him.

“You look wrecked, Dean. Have that then go get some sleep.”

“Can't.” Dean slurps down a mouthful, moaning in rapture at how good it tastes. He's sick of hospital food and take-out. “Need to call Benny.”

“Fine. But you need to sleep after that, I promised Cas you would.”

Sam and Cas had had a very brief conversation at the hospital and Dean can recall no such promise but he doesn't argue. He finishes his dinner quietly, both excited for and dreading his phone call with Benny. Eventually he excuses himself, heads upstairs to their room and, after pausing in the doorway to collect himself, collapses onto their bed. The sheets are crumpled and pushes to the bottom of the bed, very likely from the night Castiel got up to wander the streets, ending up in the ICU. Dean shucks off his over shirt and jeans, curling up against the headboard, and hits number three on his speed dial.

“Hey, brother,” Benny’s tones are soothing, and for some reason it makes Dean want to cry all over again. “How you doin’?”

“Grand.” He can't keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Fucking perfect, man. Never better.”

“How's Cas?” Benny isn't phased by the barb of Dean’s words, a sign of their friendship. “Any better?”

“Crappy,” Dean’s voice wobbles and he clears his throat at Benny's sound of alarm. “He's awake, but… yeah. Long way to go.”

“We’re all rooting for you, brother. We all want him to pull through.”

“Yeah.” He scrubs a hand over his face, hating the way his eyes burn. “He will. But… yeah. It's gonna be tough, put it that way.”

“You know, if you need some company I'm right here. You could come for dinner one night, Andrea could cook and you can get some R&R? You can't spend your life at that hospital, Dean, though I know you wanna.”

“Yeah. I appreciate the invite, Ben. Maybe one night next week, when I know which way is up.”

“Sure, cher. Any time.”

“So, hit me with it. What have you got on Ishim?” Dean crosses his fingers, hopes and prays. He knows no arrest has been made, he would have been made aware of that. But still, just maybe…?

“It ain't him, Dean.” Benny’s voice is resigned, full of regret, and Dean’s hopes of revenge and quick closure die before his eyes. “At least, it don't look like it. Guy has a solid alibi.”

“Fuuuck,” He slams his head back against the wall in frustration. He had been so convinced that they would make an arrest and that Benny was calling with good news. Fuck. This is far from good news. “But it _has_ to be him…”

“I know, brother.” Benny founds as dejected as he feels. “And we’re not givin’ up that possibility. But we have to look elsewhere.”

“Did he volunteer a DNA sample?” Dean thinks back, knowing they've got skin and semen samples from the crime scene. The idea still makes him shudder.

“No. Wouldn't entertain it. Seemed pretty damn stunned to find us there, if I'm honest with ya, cher. Says he hasn't spoken to Cas in years.”

“Doesn't mean he's not our guy.” Dean is convinced, absolutely, that Ishim is behind this. “Keep an eye on him for me.”

“Will do, brother. I'll update you as soon as we have a lead. Harvelle has signed you off for another week so don't worry your pretty head about work, alright? Go get some rest.”

But rest isn't on the agenda. Dean lies awake in his darkened room, watching the shadows move across the ceiling with every passing car, and misses Cas so much it hurts. Yet thinking about Cas hurts, too. He turns over and pulls his husband’s pillows to him, inhaling deeply and trying not to cry - yet again. Their sheets smell so familiar, like Cas’ cologne and shower gel and deodorant and, underneath it all, his own natural scent. Dean buries his face in the pillows - Cas always likes to sleep in something akin to a nest, surrounded by pillows and cuddled up to Dean - and feels the bed dip as Ruby hops on, nosing curiously at him. She's clearly wondering why he's here alone and where Cas is. Any reluctance to have her on the bed drains away and he pulls her close with his other hand, listening to her shuffle about until she's comfy. He falls into an exhausted, restless sleep to the sounds of her breathing and the muted noise from the television downstairs.

*

Cas maintains that he doesn't remember what happened to him. Well, maintains is perhaps too strong a word. In the moments he’s lucid and interacting properly with Dean, Sam, Shepherd and the rest of the medical team, he tells them he doesn't remember the attack. That it's all a blur, and that the last thing he remembers is being at home in bed. That is likely a lie as well, because he has great gaping holes in his memory from the last year and a half, which sadly include his proposal and their wedding. He remembers bits in between - like their trip to New York to see Jimmy - but doesn't recall that they went to celebrate their engagement. It's as though all memory of their marriage has been wiped clean, and Dean wakes up from a nap more than once convinced he's dreamed it all and they're still just boyfriends. But the ring on his finger says differently, and so does Jimmy. He doesn't think Castiel would have had it in him to lie, would have been able to maintain it or even feel the need to in the first place. But when Dean probes him about it and, later, when the cops come to question him he averts his gaze from whoever he's talking to - and Dean knows that look. He's been a cop for too long and he knows Cas far too well. Castiel is lying.

The memory loss surrounding their wedding and their relationship is very real. Sometimes Cas will look at Dean like he doesn't recognise him at all; other times it's like he wants to reach for him but doesn't dare. He's confused, his responses varying from day to day, but Dean is certain the memories of the happiness they shared have been destroyed in the assault. And he doesn't know if they will ever return.

The lying about that fated night though? He would swear in front of Heaven and Hell that Cas is lying about that.

But why? Why the hell would he lie and say he doesn't remember when he does? Two reasons seem plausible to Dean. One, he recalls the trauma and knows that talking about it will make it real, more real than he can cope with right now. Two… he's protecting his attacker. Which is, quite frankly, insane. Cas would never protect someone who was willing to commit such a violent act, it just isn't possible. He mulls it all over constantly, trying to work it all out and failing. He wishes he could see inside Cas’ head, know what he's thinking and where the gaps are. Wishes he could know why Cas would consider covering up for whoever wanted to hurt him so fatally.

But that isn't the most upsetting thing, not for Dean. The worst thing is watching Cas struggle with everyday tasks. He's allowed out of bed now to use the bathroom on his own and to stretch his legs, but he's finding even the most mundane things very difficult. Dean has read all the information Shepherd gave him about the possible impact of head injuries and it made him sick to his stomach to read what may happen to Cas. But seeing it in the flesh is worse.

Cas can walk, unsteadily, on his own. But his coordination is all off and he's experiencing major weakness down the right side of his body, causing him to stumble and reach for the nearest thing to steady himself. The nearest thing is usually Dean, and the look he receives in return for not letting Cas fall is piercing. Cas misses the handle on the bathroom door when he reaches for it more often than not. He can't even brush his teeth or rinse his mouth properly on his own without dripping toothpaste and mouthwash down his front, and the more frustrated he gets the more vivid his symptoms become. Shepherd has taught Dean words like ‘ataxia’ and ‘hemiplegia’ and explained that Cas’ weakness, loss of full mobility and the tremors that wrack his hands and legs may be permanent. Dean can't even begin to comprehend that.

“There's physical therapy, Dean.” Shepherd had explained. “I've written down the name of a favoured therapist and I'll encourage Castiel to visit her as often as possible. Twice a week to begin with.”

“Right.” Dazed, Dean can barely take it all in.

“And I want him to talk to someone about how he's feeling. Right now I can't tell if he genuinely doesn't recall anything or if he's bottling it all up, and that's concerning to me.” Shepherd looks tired, Dean notes. And come to think of it, he hasn't seen Grey around in a while. He wonders idly if they're having trouble.

“Yeah. OK. When… when can I take him home?”

“Soon. Two days, maybe three. And we’ll give you all the support we can as that transition is likely to be difficult.” Shepherd eyes him meaningfully. “For both of you.”

“I know, doc.” Dean looks through the small window into Cas’ room, where his husband is listlessly flicking through one of the books Dean brought him. His broken arm is resting in his lap and, as Dean watches, his fingers spasm and flex. Cas closes his eyes briefly, as though in pain, and Dean’s heart aches.

*

“Dean?”

He wakes to Cas’ voice, low and sleepy in the dark room. They're holding hands, he realises - Cas must have reached for him in the night. He's been told by the nurses that he needs to go home at night now, that both he and Cas need their rest. He's agreed - but begged for just one more night, which they acquiesced to grudgingly. It meant another night of sleeping folded up in a hard plastic chair, but what do aching joints and sore muscles matter when his husband is only metres away?

“Yeah, baby?” He rubs his eyes, immediately awake and leaning in to meet the blue eyes of his lover. Cas is lying on his side, facing him, his right arm pulled to his chest encased in its cast and the left one stretched out to entwine with Dean’s. He looks on the edge of sleep; Dean runs his fingers through his hair, avoiding the healing surgical scar, and waits quietly.

“I… We were… married?”

Breath catches in Dean’s throat, almost chokes him. “Yeah, baby. We're still married. I'm your husband.”

Cas is silent for a while, but grips his hand a little tighter; the only sounds are the cry of an owl from outside and the murmur of low voices from down the hall. They just study each other, Cas in quiet bewilderment and Dean with hope in his heart. He can't take further rejection, it would shatter him. Then, very very quietly, Cas whispers into the semi-darkness:

“I think… I might love you.”


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, however, Cas is back to cool and detached and Dean feels like he's going to get whiplash from his mood swings. He excuses himself early, stiff and aching, to go in search of coffee. Cas is awake, staring out of the window, his expression carefully blank and almost… bored. Dean heads outside to call Jimmy then Sam to update them both, then heads back to the cafeteria to get them both breakfast. He gets Cas’ coffee black, the way he's had it ever since he's known the man, and his own with so much sugar and cream that it barely passes for coffee any more. Then two pastries and some fruit, and heads on back to Cas’ room.

When he gets there, Cas is just coming out of the bathroom, and is clearly struggling. He's gripping the doorframe tightly with his left hand, his right clutches protectively to his chest, and seems to be assessing the distance from the bathroom to the bed and whether or not he can make it without help. Hurriedly, Dean dumps their breakfast on the side table and approaches his husband, stopping a foot away.

“Don't, Dean,” Cas speaks through gritted teeth. “I can do it.”

“I know you can, babe, but…” Dean extends a hand, palm up. Offering, not forcing. “I could help. If you want. I know you can do it, but why make it harder on yourself?”

“I don't need your help. Or anyone's help.” Castiel's voice is tense, thick with anger, and his knuckles are white where he's gripping the doorframe. He won't quite meet Dean's eyes.

"I know," Dean's hand doesn't waver and Cas just stares at it as though it offends him. Then, with jerky, displeased movements, he reaches out and allows Dean to take him by the arm to help him across the room. He stumbles after the first step, falling sideways, and Dean wraps an arm around his waist to stop him from falling. They make it across the room together, Cas trembling with the effort at his side and his lips white, presssed tightly together, and eventually he's sitting on the edge of the bed, breathless. Dean grabs the two coffee cups and hands one to Cas - and isn't prepared for the reaction he receives.

Cas wrinkles his nose and a sour expression crosses his face, one Dean can't ever recall seeing before. He pushes at Dean's wrist to reject the hot drink, almost spilling it in the process.

"I don't want that." His eyes land on the other cup, Dean's cup, and he takes - almost snatches - that instead. Dean can do nothing but stare, floored by the outright agression in his partner and confused by his actions.

"But, Cas... that's how you've always had your coffee. You hate the way I have mine, you always say-"

"Am I not allowed to change my mind?" Cas snaps, and Dean visibly recoils, sitting back in his chair in silence, stunned. The Castiel in front of him is so far removed from his loving, gentle, polite husband that he can't make any sense of this at all.

"No, of course... of course you are. I'm just going to... speak to the doctors. I'll be right back."

As he leaves the room, he's certain he hears Cas mutter, under his breath, 'Don't hurry back’ and his vision blurs as he walks.

He finds Shepherd eventually and is immediately reassured that changes in personality can accompany head injuries and that he should try and be as patient as possible. Dean nods, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.

He can cope with an angry Cas, an upset Cas, even a Cas who retreats into himself and doesn't want to talk. But this cold, bitter, almost vicious version of his husband is hard to stomach because he's never, in all their years together, seen Castiel like this. He has other things praying on his mind, too, and awkwardly voices them to Shepherd who turns serious eyes on him before responding.

“Yes, he knows about the rape. Grey and I told him, and his response was minimal at best. I know you think he remembers something and is hiding it; I'm not convinced, but you know him better than I do. Your guess is better than ours.”

Dean is silent, sullen. His nerves are stretched to breaking point, and Shepherd’s next words leave him both dumbfounded and ecstatic.

“I think you should take him home, Dean.”

“He - what? Home? When, today?”

“Yes.” Shepherd nods, apparently sure of his decision. “I'll do a final check on him in an hour, then I think it would be a good idea to take him home and get him settled. It's widely known that being in familiar environments with loved ones around can help aid recovery, and I think this is certainly true in Castiel’s case.”

“That's… that's great, doc, but what if…” _What if I can't cope? What if it's too much? What if he doesn't want to come home…?_

“We won't just send you out into the cold, Dean.” Shepherd seems to have read his thoughts. “We know the first few days can be difficult so we’ll prepare you both as well as we can, and give you a list of people you can call if you need anything. And we’ll set you both up with therapist appointments before you leave.”

“Both of us?”

“Yes, Dean.” Shepherd’s face is serious again now. “You've been through a trauma as well, and talking to someone might help you work through it. Will you at least give it a go?”

Dean has never really believed in therapy, not for him. He's seen it work for other people, but he's always been intensely private and dislikes talking about his innermost feelings with anyone, even Sam Cas, of course, was the exception. _Is_ the exception. Fuck, he's tired.

“I should get back. Tell him the good news.” He gestures behind him with a thumb, back down the hallway to where the stairs lead to the floor where Cas’ room is, and is unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. Cas’ quiet ‘don't hurry back’ is echoing in his mind.

“Of course. Do tell him, Dean. He'd like to hear it from you.”

Dean, not so sure, turns and walks away.

Back upstairs, he pushes open the door fully expecting a cold glare or even just an impassive raised eyebrow, but he finds neither. Castiel is curled up on his side, broken arm pulled in to his chest, and the other reaching for the empty chair where Dean usually sits. He's asleep, frowning, looking less than peaceful, his skin cool and raised with goose flesh as he lies on top of the covers. On the other side of the bed, the coffee cup lies on its side, its contents spilled in an s-shape; the cup has clearly been dropped and left. He feels a tug in his chest, picturing Cas unable to pick it up, and approaches the bed to pull the covers up over his husband’s body. When he does, Cas stirs and confused, sleepy blue eyes open to meet his. Cas frowns, but it's a bewildered one, and his eyes are nervous but welcoming. Relieved. Dean clasps his hand in both of his and sits down, resting his elbows gingerly on the bed. Cas squeezes his fingers.

“Guess what, sweetheart? I can take you home today,” he's not sure why he's whispering. It's almost like he's afraid to wake Cas properly, afraid that this soft, needy version of Cas will diminish as he wakes. “Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Cas breathes, and a genuine smile spreads across his lips, reaching up to make his eyes sparkle. “I want to go home, Dean. Take me home.” He closes his eyes again, pulls Dean’s hand in to rest against his cheek. “I can't wait.”

*

They don't go straight home when they leave the hospital. Dean intends to, but as he pulls out of the parking lot Cas rests his fingertips oh-so-gently on his sleeve and says, ‘can we go for a ride out, Dean?’ And, naturally, Dean says yes with a leaping heart. One of his favourite things to do is to go for a drive with Cas, doubly so since today is the day he gets to take his husband home. It's nearing sunset, and the golden glow of the sun strokes over Cas’ skin, pale from trauma and from being cooped up inside for so long. The angle makes the shadows from his lashes seem incredibly long, dancing down over his cheeks which are slightly hollowed, but his eyes sparkle like water on a clear day. He avidly watches everything around him, settled comfortably in the passenger seat wearing a thick sweater over jeans, his feet tucked under him and his sneakers kicked off in the footwell. The sleeves are pulled right down so only his fingertips are visible, his right arm thicker and more rigid than he left, and Dean watches him with half an eye as he drives. Cas’ ring finger is still miserably bare; his wedding ring is safe back at home in Dean’s bedside table in the hope that maybe, one day soon, Cas will want it back.

The city comes alive at this time. Folk are finishing work and heading home, to the gym, to restaurants, to shops or to buy groceries, and Dean watches Cas watch everyone. Occasionally his head will turn as he gazes at something in particular, and Dean always wonders what.

“There…” Cas’ voice is a little croaky as he speaks, and he presses a finger to the glass, pointing to a Whole Foods across the street. “I feel like I go there a lot.”

“You do, babe.” Dean pulls the car over and leaves the engine idling, his heart doing a pleased somersault at the realisation that Cas remembers. “It's right on your way home from work, so you pick up our groceries all the time.”

“From work…” Cas tries out the words as though they're foreign, new to him entirely. “I work at the museum…”

“Yes!” Dean tries to keep the excitement out of his voice. Yesterday, Cas had been hazy on the details of his career. “Yes, you do, baby. You love your job.”

“I do? Really?” Cas turns hopeful blue eyes on him. “Good. That's good. I've always wanted to work in a museum.”

“I know. You talked all about your job on our first date, and how you felt so lucky to have your dream career so young.”

“I said that?” Cas frowns, going back to staring out of the window. “I don't remember.” He sounds so melancholy that Dean reaches for him - and to his surprise Castiel takes his hand and links their fingers together, the fabric of his sweater scratchy between their palms. It's a sweater Jimmy gave him and the one, Dean realises with a rush, that Cas had been wearing the day he proposed. Suddenly, he's a little more uplifted. Perhaps this is an omen.

Just then, his phone chimes loudly and he checks the screen: Benny. While he doesn't want to disturb Cas or bother him by talking on the phone, he really needs to take this. Cas seems to get that and shrugs, nodding at the phone.

“Go for it. I'll just wait here.” And he goes back to looking out of the window, his hand leaving Dean’s and going instead to his mouth, where he chews listlessly at a fingernail. Dean watches for a second; Cas doesn't bite his nails. He never has. The he hits the answer button and opens the car door, getting out and greeting Benny simultaneously. He makes his way to a nearby bench where he can talk discretely but keep an eye on Cas and the car all at once.

“How's Cas?” Is the first thing Benny asks, and Dean can answer with genuine positivity this time.

“Good. Better. We’re on our way home right now.”

“That's great, brother.” Benny sounds a little distant, distracted. Dean can hear a phone ringing in the background, the sounds of the precinct going on without him. “Listen, we don't have any updates for you right now. Just wanted to let you know, so don't worry about callin’ in. I'll let you know when we do.”

“Oh.” It’s said quite firmly, and Dean feels momentarily off-kilter. “Is there anything I can do to-”

“No. Nothing, Dean.” Benny pauses, then his voice softens a little. “Nothin’, cher. Just take care of Cas. We’ll take care of the case.”

“Any suspects yet?”

“No. Dean-”

“Any more evidence? Is Ellen willing to call out yet, the FBI might be able to lend a hand?”

“This is still within our jurisdiction. It ain't a federal matter, Dean, you know that. One attack, one victim, less than a month… it ain't their business.”

“I know,” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose knowing, logically, that Benny is completely right. He had just been holding out hope for a little extra help, that’s all. “I just thought if we put in a special request, since he's one of our own-”

“Dean.” Benny’s voice fades into the background for a second; he's talking to someone who sounds a lot like Harvelle. “Listen, I gotta go. I'll call you.”

“But…”

And the line goes dead. Dean stares at his phone, bewildered, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It isn't like Benny to be so dismissive, but then again his friend is probably stressed over trying to solve the case and getting nowhere fast, especially without Dean by his side to help. He can't think of any other explanation for his friend’s sharp attitude. He glances back at the car, at Cas, and is relieved to see his husband sitting back in his seat, leaning lightly against the headrest, looking more relaxed than he's been in days. It takes a second for him to realise that Cas is staring directly at him, watching him, and he feels warmth heat his cheeks as he stares back, smiling hopefully. Cas smiles back.

They drive the rest of the way home holding hands.

*

It's when they actually arrive home that the problems start once more. Or, more accurately, before they cross the threshold because Cas walks up the path with Dean but freezes at the steps and refuses to move. Dean, unlocking the door and rolling his shoulders, only notices when the sound of Cas’ footsteps on the porch never come. He's pale as a ghost and wide-eyed, staring up at the house with what looks like mounting panic, and Dean hastens to his side.

“Babe? What's wrong?”

“We… we do live here, don't we?” Cas’ voice is an octave higher. “I keep picturing an apartment… and a dog… but then… here feels familiar but I can't quite…”

“Yes, Cas, we live here.” Dean lets the duffel bag fall from his shoulder to the ground and takes Cas’ hands in his. “You used to live in an apartment, when we met. A small place in town, you and Ruby. But then we moved here, together.”

“Ruby?” Cas’ eyes glaze over then suddenly spark with excitement. “Ruby! Is she here? Where is she?”

As if on cue, a wild bark sounds from inside and Dean grins. Sam has kept to his word and dropped her off to surprise Cas. He pushes the door open and the Akita-cross comes bounding out, skidding to a halt at the top of the stairs then, yelping joyfully, she spins around once and takes the stairs in one leap, ending up at Cas’ feet. She stares up at him, practically vibrating, and Cas crumbles. He falls to his knees and wraps both arms around his dog, burying his face in her soft fur, and his shoulders shake with emotion. Dean hesitates, then kneels down next to the pair of them, resting a hand gently on Cas’ shoulder, at a loss for anything else to do. Ruby just sits there solemnly, resting her chin on the top of Cas’ head, then paws at him when he really starts to break down, whining low in her throat. When Cas doesn’t pull away from his touch, Dean rubs gently between his shoulder blades and murmurs words of comfort into Cas’ ear, unable to quite figure out what could have triggered such a sudden and intense meltdown. Then, looking at the dog and at Cas’ arms tight around her, it hits him with the force of a freight train. Cas got Ruby in the weeks following intense trauma, when he was healing in both body and mind. The dog symbolises his journey back to himself, she symbolises him striking out on his own and taking control of his life. And now, years later, here he is again in the aftermath of a tragedy, in pieces, with no idea of how to put himself back together again nor if it’s even possible. His dog has been a comfort, a source of therapy, and his best friend. She provides him with a shoulder to cry on, an ear when he needs to talk, and she loves him unconditionally. Dean provides those things too, but in a different way. Ruby’s love is, in a way, purer because Cas truly is the centre of her world. She’s his anchor when he needs grounding, and he needs that more than anything right now.

He kneels on the cold ground while Cas lets it all out, sobbing outright into Ruby’s fur, then when his cries begin to subside Dean slides an arm around his waist and the three of them make it inside. He deposits Cas on the sofa, where Ruby immediately jumps up to curl up in his lap, no doubt too heavy but there’s no way Cas will shove her off, and he retrieves the duffel bag. Heading upstairs, he throws dirty clothes in the laundry and closes the bathroom door quietly, needing a moment. He leans on the sink, staring at his own reflection, and doesn’t recognise the strained, tired, emotionally shattered man who gazes back.

*

Cas eats, and seems to enjoy it. He won’t get up from the sofa initially, and Ruby won’t leave his side, so they eat in the living room. Aside from being a little bit tearful and incredibly drained, he seems OK until Dean clears their plates, grabs two beers and tries to sit down next to him. At the first touch of their thighs, Cas visibly flinches and shrinks away. Ruby’s head comes up and she stares, first at her favourite human then over at Dean, her second favourite, in confusion. Dean, unsure if what he saw was imagined or not, tries gently to wrap an arm around Castiel but he’s very definitely sure of what he sees then: Cas cringes and shrinks into himself, away from Dean’s touch as though he can’t bear it. Then Dean sees his face, as he turns and fixes him with a glassy stare: he looks terrified. He’s got his broken arm across his chest, covering where the scars are, and he’s starting to tremble.

Yes, he knows about the rape. Grey and I told him…

Dean flinches himself then, shocked at his own actions. Cas is pressed tightly into the corner of the sofa, evidently distressed, and Dean had not only missed those signs but had made everything worse. Of course Cas is freaked, he berates himself. He’s alone now, with another man - yes, Dean is his husband but Cas barely knows that right now. He barely remembers Dean; it’s entirely possibly he’s feeling threatened. Sickened, he extricates himself from the sofa and is about to walk out towards the living room when Cas catches his arm and stops him in his stride. He glances down; Cas is staring at the point where his fingers wrap around Dean’s wrist then, very slowly, leans forward and rests his forehead against the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry…”

The words are barely audible, but Dean catches them and they bring tears to his eyes. He nods, Cas releases him, and he retreats into the kitchen.

Later, more sadness. He comes back in, hoping Cas will either have dozed off or will have turned to a book for entertainment and finds the sofa empty and the lights off. His eyes adjust, and just as he wonders if Cas went up to bed without him hearing, he sees a flash of Ruby’s pale fur across the room. Next to the piano stool. And, sitting on it and totally motionless, is Cas. He’s staring down at the keys, shoulders hunches and head bowed, and his left hand is splayed gently out in the position for a chord Dean cannot name, but he isn’t playing. Dean approaches, quietly but intentionally making enough noise with his steps so that he doesn’t startle the other man. He perches on the arm of the sofa and they sit there in silence for a while.

“I can’t remember how,” Cas murmurs, and his voice is so heavy with misery that Dean wants to wrap him up in his embrace and never let go. “I’ve been sitting here for so long and… I can’t remember how. I want to, but… I know it won’t come out right and I can’t bear to hear it if it isn’t right. Why can’t I remember?”

“You will,” Dean’s hand comes to rest on the edge of the stool and Cas’ gaze flicks to it, stays. “I know you will. You play beautifully, that isn’t the sort of thing you just forget. Muscle memory, or something. Sam will know, Shepherd will. I have faith in you, babe. It will come back to you.”

“What if it doesn’t?” And it’s a question Dean has been trying so hard not to ask. “What if I never remember any of it? What if I only remember the…” He trails off, but Dean can finish his sentence. The pain. The fear. The terror. Being attacked. The aftermath. “I don’t know who did it, Dean. I remember… it. All of it. But his face… I can’t. I know you want me to, but I can’t. I’m so sorry. I wish I could remember, I wish I could help you find him.” Cas sniffs, on the edge of tears. He’s whispering, his voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry that I can’t.”

“Don’t.” Dean chances rubbing his back; it’s the right thing to do, Cas leans into the touch. “Don’t apologise. I’ll find him, sweetheart. I’ll find him for you, then all this will be over. We’ll be alright, you’ll see. I’ll make us alright.”

A watery smile makes its way to Dean through the semi-darkness.

“I know you will.”

They spend the rest of the evening on the sofa, a short distance between them but their hands linked and resting on the cushion in the gap between their bodies. And Dean reads to Cas until both of them are nodding off, and he has to rouse the other man enough to drag him to his feet and help him up the stairs. It’s past midnight and they both need their rest.

Cas climbs the stairs slowly, bracing himself on the wall with one hand and his broken arm tight in to his stomach. Ruby is at his heels, encouraging, urging him on, and Dean brings up the rear. They’re on the way to the bathroom, Dean intending to help Cas have a quick body shower and pull on some PJs, but when they reach their bedroom, which is cool and dark with the blinds drawn, Cas stops in the doorway and just stares in for a moment with an unreadable expression on his face. The bed is just how Dean left it, covers a mess and the pillows haphazardly thrown back on. Ruby trots into the room, her claws clicking on the wooden floor, and jumps onto the bed, spinning in a circle then lying down, watching them both with large eyes that seem to ask, ‘aren't you coming, too?’

Cas makes a strange, quiet choked sound in the back of his throat and crosses the room to her, climbing unsteadily onto the bed still fully-clothed, and lying down with his arm thrown over her. Dean hangs back, feeling oddly out of place then, just as he's about to follow them, Cas buries his face in Ruby’s soft fur and starts to cry again, very quietly.

Not knowing what to do, Dean sits down on the end of the bed and reaches for him. But his fingers stop an inch from Cas’ shaking thigh, and he just stares, feeling lost and adrift. Soon enough, Cas’ hand finds his and Dean manages to lie down in an awkward, cramped position with the dog in between them, and soon Castiel’s breathing evens out and his quiet gasps for breath turn steady as he succumbs to his exhaustion.

And Dean? Dean watches him sleep, all night. Strokes his hair, rubs his back when he stirs, and pulls the covers up over him so that he doesn’t wake up cold. Cas is home. Things can only get better. Right?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags, folks.

Castiel wakes, hours later, to a face full of warm fur and the familiar smell of Ruby. He's lying on his side, his right arm curled against his chest and his left wrapped securely around his dog, and he's warm and comfortable. For a while, he just lies there, dozing, in that peaceful state just before fully waking. Ruby is huffing in her sleep, and her heartbeat is soothing. As he slowly returns to consciousness, he becomes aware of a bitter taste in his mouth. It's coppery and something viscous seems to be coating his lips and tongue. It tastes almost like…

Blood.

He sits bolt upright, chest heaving with sudden panicked panting, and he stares sightlessly at the wall ahead of him, disoriented and paralysed with fright. He can taste blood, he can feel a hand at his throat, he can see… _oh god_ , his chest contracts with fright. A whine comes from Ruby, but he’s sinking into the memory of being backed into a corner, of someone up close in his face, of hands gripping his wrists and twisting…

He blinks and the vision changes. White walls, machines beeping, low voices. Then it shifts and changes again; he can taste rain on the air and beneath his fingers the sheets feel like tarmac and gravel and everything hurts…

“Cas?”

It takes a moment for him to realise that he's being addressed, that the name being called belongs to him and that the person saying it has clearly been trying to get his attention for a while. As he comes back to his surroundings, heart racing and palms sweating where he clenches the sheets, his gaze lands on a man standing in the doorway looking just short of utterly freaked out. He's tall, sandy-blonde haired, and looks muscular under his black t-shirt with just a hint of softness at his waist and hips. Cas blinks. He looks familiar. The ache in his chest seems to be dissipating and breathing is becoming easier, but nothing seems to be answering the question of _where the hell am I?_ The merest hints of his flashbacks are still at the tendrils of his vision: the coppery tang, the scent of nighttime summer air, the pavement beneath his fingers, the pain of someone grabbing him… But then the man in the doorway speaks again and his voice seems to brush those last memories away.

“Cas? Are you OK?”

Cas… _he’s_ Cas. So the man in the doorway, holding two steaming mugs of coffee and wearing a concerned frown must be…

“Dean.” It comes out as a croak, two octaves higher, and he tries again. “Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” The man, Dean (his partner, his brain reminds him), steps into the room and Ruby presses her wet nose into Cas’ hand, nudging him to release his grip on the blankets. “I brought coffee… did I wake you?”

“N-no,” He isn’t entirely sure what woke him. His natural circadian rhythms are shot to hell, he knows that much, because he hasn’t a clue what time it is but it certainly isn’t morning. At least, if it is, then it’s really early. He can’t hear the birds chirping, which is normally what he wakes to. Is it? He can’t seem to be sure. He stares around him at the bedroom as his surroundings slowly become clearer, his vision adjusting to the dimness of the bedroom with the blinds drawn. A closet with the doors closed. A dresser with a mirror on the top, not of the drawers slightly open. A bookcase stuffed with paperback novels and what look like scientific textbooks. White sheets. Blackout blinds, cracked open just at the bottom. Wooden flooring with a shaggy rug by the bed. Himself, curled on it, knees up to his chest. Dean, holding coffee. They’re in his bedroom, _their_ bedroom, at their house. But beyond that, he can’t think. Can remember not much at all, and certainly can’t pinpoint why he feels so sick and tense and like he’s just been running from something terrifying. Dean approaches, and the anxiety in his chest intensifies instead of lessening, and he pulls the blankets tighter in a feeble attempt to protect himself.

“Do… do you want one?” Dean looks as nervous as Cas feels, his brows still furrowed and his face a shade paler than it normally is. He’s normally tanned, right? And smiling? Cas tries to recall his partner’s face and manages, but he can’t pinpoint the exact memory. Nothing feels real, he can’t grasp onto anything properly, and he feels like he’s remembering things through a long, twisting tunnel, only gaining snatches of moments before they’re dragged away from him. The rich aroma of coffee finally reaches him and he stares at the mugs in Dean’s hands as he finds his body responding eagerly to the prospect of caffeine. Coffee. He likes coffee. That will probably help. Maybe he’s just hungover, did they go out last night?

Dean sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed and holds both mugs out to Cas. “I wasn’t sure how you’d want it, so I made two. That’s just black,” He lifts one hand, the mug cream and deep, full of swirling black liquid that looks unappetising. “And this has milk, sugar, and vanilla creamer. Which one do you want?”

The second is in a mug that reads _This is how I roll_ with a picture of a cop car beneath it. Cas wants that one. He reaches for it but, somehow, his hand doesn’t seem to be working properly. His fingertips brush the mug but don’t grip it, and as he looks down he sees his right hand encased in a cast. And, suddenly, it hurts. Deep, shooting pain in his wrist and he gasps reflexively. What the hell did he do? What happened?

“Here,” Dean says, hurriedly, depositing the other mug on the nightstand and lifts Cas’ left hand. “Try this one, and just take it slow.”

His hand closes gently around the mug but it takes a second before he’s confident enough to hold it on his own. Dean seems similarly reluctant to let him take it, but eventually he lets go and Cas manages to lift it to his lips, one-handed, shaking a little. It’s sweet and creamy and he instantly feels better. A little.

“Dean, how did I…” He glances down at his arm. “I don’t remember…”

“You’ve been in hospital, Cas.” Dean extends a hand and brushes a lock of hair from his forehead, and Cas manages to conceal a cringe. His skin crawls at the contact. “Do you remember that?”

Hospital. He frowns, and a memory surfaces. White walls. A green plant on a nightstand next to him and a vase of sickly-smelling flowers. A clinical smell of antiseptic and a doctor with dark, wavy hair and a kind smile. Pain. Being sore, all over. Trying to swallow tablets with a glass of water and vomiting them back up into an emesis basin. Dean, worried. Dean’s brother - his name won’t come - also worried. Jimmy. _Jimmy._

“Where’s Jimmy?” It leaves his lips as a plea, and Dean shifts closer in a clear attempt to comfort him.

“He’s at his hotel, Cas. He’s going to come and see you later, he told you that yesterday, do you remember?”

“No.” He doesn’t. He just remembers his brother’s face, the feel of his hand in his, his smile. Him looking freaked out, relieved, upset, all at once. He rubs his eyes then regrets it as the rough fibreglass of the cast scratches his cheek and the movement sends a jolt of pain through his hand. “What happened? Dean, why was I in the hospital?”

“You, um.” Dean stalls, running a hand through his short hair, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “What do you remember?”

“Well, _nothing_ , that’s why I’m asking.” He’s suddenly irritable with the man in front of him. Why is he being asked that? Why can’t Dean just tell him? And why does everything feel so fuzzy?

“What’s the last thing you _do_ remember?”

Dean had visibly flinched at Cas’ sharp tone, his green eyes taking on a haggard look for just a moment. Cas glares, then drops his gaze and thinks. Snatches of memory taunt and evade him, memories of he and Dean doing not much. Vacationing, working, laughing at something, arguing about something else. Dean grossed out by Ruby’s drool. Dean dropping a casserole dish on the floor and just staring at the mess in dismay. Himself, up late, scribbling something in a notebook. Piano music, both written on sheets in front of him and played as gentle melodies filling the air.His fingers automatically move as he remembers the music notes, and the coffee in his hand slops over onto the sheets. He remembers talking on the phone and smiling. Talking on the phone and feeling anxious and tense. Bars. One bar in particular. The dark, busy streets, himself getting out of his car.

Then, all of a sudden and without his consent, his mind takes control and throws him almost a decade into the past. He loses his grip on the mug and coffee goes everywhere as a low cry leaves his lips.

*

 **6** **th** **Novembe** r

Cas is writing something in a notebook when Ishim comes home. He’s working on an assignment for his Masters degree and he’s been at it for hours. He coffee in his mug is cold, his eyes are sore and scratchy from staring at pages of text, and he’s not noticed that the house has grown cool around him. The first thing he notices, the first subtle hint that something is wrong, is the sound of the kitchen door banging open and he jumps a mile, barely catching his coffee cup before it spills its contents all over the table and his work.

“Ishim!” As soon as his gaze lands on his partner, a cold feeling sweeps over him. Ishim looks cool and unimpressed as he takes in the scene before him and the mess Castiel has made with his papers and books all over the kitchen table. “I didn't expect you home so…” His gaze lands on the clock. “Oh. I thought it was… I lost track of time.”

He blushed as he says it, realising that he's managed to fuck up. It's Monday night, Mondays are the busiest days of Ishim’s week, and he's meant to have dinner on the table when his boyfriend walks in. He's been so absorbed in his studies that he didn't notice the clock slide to six, then six thirty, and now seven. Shit. The last time he did this, missed dinner… he unconsciously rubs the back of his left thigh, heart starting to pound. He can salvage this, he can. He scuffles to clear his things away, watching out of the corner of his eye as Ishim shrugs off his overcoat and unwinds his scarf, all the while his cold blue eyes watching Castiel’s every move.

“Castiel, we talked about this.” He leans against the doorframe, fingering the pocket watch he always wears, the watch Castiel got him for their anniversary. “Your powers of retention seem to require some improvement.”

“I know, I'm sorry. I got caught up with…” He trails off. Ishim won't care, he won't be interested. He needs to hurry and make dinner if he has any chance at salvaging the evening. “I'll whip something up, why don't you go and relax?”

“Relax?” Ishim’s voice is deadly cool, critical as he watches Castiel flit feverishly about the kitchen pulling out the ingredients for a quick bolognese. “I would love to relax, Castiel, with a hot meal in front of me and a glass of wine but that hasn't happened, has it?”

“No. But I'll be a half hour, you just…”

He drops the pan and it makes a horrible clanging sound; they both jump and Ishim’s eyes grow colder. It takes him less than fifteen minutes in total to prepare a meal for them, but even when he places a helping in front of Ishim he knows it isn't enough. That it won't placate the ire swirling within his partner. Ishim hasn't even got started yet. With trembling hands, he uncorks the bottle of wine he quickly put to come to room temperature on the counter, leans over to pour Ishim a glass, and…

“Jesus, Castiel!” Ishim leaps up as his hand slips and the wine goes everywhere, all over him - and all over his brand new $500 shirt. Red wine, white shirt. Castiel’s heart leaps into his throat as the liquid spreads, staining like blood, and the feeling leaves his hands in a sudden rush. Shaking, he scrambles for a towel but the back of his t-shirt is caught and he's hauled backwards, spun around until he's gazing into blue eyes alight with fury.

“Castiel, for the love of God. Why are you so pathetically stupid? _Why_?”

Ishim has him by the collar and is shaking him roughly. The scent of spilled wine fills the air and Castiel feels sick. Ishim’s knuckles are digging painfully into his throat and he’s only just keeping his balance on his tiptoes; the other man is taller than him and is hauling him close to they’re almost nose-to-nose.

“Do you have any idea how much this suit cost? Do you? I’ve had it for a week and in five minutes you’ve destroyed it.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Ishim.” Castiel barely recognises his own voice, an octave higher and thin with fright. Part of him is screaming at him to push the other man back, to twist out of his grip and _get the hell away_ , while another part is keeping him paralysed with fear. He’s never seen his partner this angry before. It’s a cold, deadly kind of fury: his eyes are steely and his mouth set in a thin line, his gaze searching Castiel’s face. Then he’s released, pushed away and his back collides painfully with the table, sending it sideways into the wall. Glassware falls over, falls off the table and shatters and Ishim’s plate sides to the floor complete with its contents. The remnants of the dinner Castiel had hurriedly made them stare up at him and he swallows, mouth suddenly dry.

“You know, when I first met you you were perfect. Handsome, controlled, intelligent. Someone I could really see myself being with for a long time. But now? You’re hopeless! Look at this fucking mess!” Ishim throws his hands up in despair, then advances towards Castiel, his intent to harm very clear in his icy gaze. The scarred remnants of the welts in the back of Castiel’s thighs, long healed, ache. He should know better. Ishim had already taught him a lesson once, to be careful and controlled in his presence, and now look what’s happened. He wasn’t careful, he ruined his partner’s best suit, and if he had been more aware of what he was doing all afternoon none of this would have happened anyway. Dinner would have been prepared in a timely fashion, not rushed, and he wouldn’t have been so on edge. His hands wouldn’t have been so shaky. He wouldn’t have fucked up. Months and months of verbal abuse now turned physical swirl in his memory and he swallows, dry-mouthed. He has a very, very bad feeling about tonight.

He retreats until his back meets the still-hot stove and he jerks in reaction, moving away to avoid being burned.But as he does, Ishim’s eyes glint with something new and Castiel shivers in fear.

“Ishim, I’ll clear it all away. I’ll clean up, right n-now, then I’ll make us s-something else.” He tries to keep his voice soothing, placating, but it’s shaking too much and he stumbles a little over his words. “And I’ll pay to have your suit dry cleaned, I’ll do it first thing tomorrow before I go to lectures. F-first thing. Or I’ll replace it. The same one, a b-better one. Anything you like. I’m sorry. Just let me-“

He moves to grab a dishcloth, staring at the mess of food and glass on the floor in an attempt to avoid the cold eyes of his lover, but Ishim is quicker. He takes Cas by the arm and moves him back in front of the stove, holding him in place with a vice-like grip on his forearm as the other hand comes up to grip his chin.

“Yes, Castiel, you will. You’ll make me something else to eat, but you’ll do it right now, before you clean up. You expect me to go hungry after I’ve been out at work all day to provide for you while you sit at home? Is that it?”

He wants to say that he _doesn’t_ sit at home, that he studies and he works at the library downtown for some extra cash and that his Masters will be finished soon then he’s _guaranteed_ a job lecturing, but the words won’t come. It’s an ancient argument, one Ishim always brings back up when the mood takes him. He just nods and tries to turn to switch the stove back on. It’s electric and, in hindsight, that fact probably saved his life as a naked flame would have set his clothes alight. But he doesn’t think on the type of appliance he owns, he just watches it heat up and tries to reach for the nearest pan to set it on to boil. Pasta. It’s quick, easy, and Ishim likes it. He can do that. But the man is behind him, boxing him in against the stove and he’s being pushed forward into it, the edge cutting painfully into his hips. The heat is starting to rise from it, and a hand from behind him worms its way round to turn the dial up.

“Ishim…” Castiel squirms, trying to move backwards but he’s blocked by the older man’s body. “It’s hot, can I just…”

“You’ll stay right there,” The words are hissed into his ear. “Where you belong. Don’t you dare move. I'm going to help you, Castiel. Help you remember how to behave, and I'm going to _burn_ it into your memory for good. Cure you of this pathetic weakness of yours. Don't you _dare_ move.”

A hideous, sickening panic grips him, his chest tightening and bile rising in his throat as the realisation that Ishim really intends to hurt him sets in. A wild, fearful cry rips from his lips but he can't get away, Ishim has him pinned, held in place with his arms. The back of his thighs burn as his fear spikes, but it's nothing compared to what's about to happen.

He’s being pushed forward, Ishim’s chest on his back, bending him over the stove and suddenly a dart of fear spears him as the heat becomes more intense and he manages to bring an arm up to try and protect himself, flinching then crying out as he feels the hair on his arm singe before the pain hits. His bare skin is too close to the heat, only half an inch away, and it’s burning him, the pain searing and ripping the breath from his lips.

“Ishim!”

He’s pushed again and he falls, his socked feet sliding out from under him on their wooden floor, and he lands right on top of the stove, Ishim’s weight pressing him down, and agony sears through him as a scream, so intense and inhuman he’s sure it came from something supernatural, rips from his throat. His arm burns and he writhes, howling, sliding to the side then his chest is in direct contact with the heat through his t-shirt; his eyes blur with tears as he loses his breath to the pain. It feels like the skin is being ripped from his body and his consciousness starts to fade as agonised cries leave his lips. Behind him, on top of him, all around him, Ishim is laughing.

“You're weak, Castiel. So pathetic and weak…”

The last thing Castiel remembers, and the thing that stays with him and will haunt him forever, is the smell. The putrid, thick, cloying odour of his own flesh burning.

*

**Present Day**

The flashback hit Castiel hard and as a result he sleeps for most of the morning, knocked out by the Xanax and pain medication Dean had managed to get him to take. It had been heart-wrenching, watching Cas succumb to such an agonising memory only to come out of it more frightened and confused than before, clinging to Dean and begging him to make it stop, to make the pain stop. Later, when Cas was asleep in his arms, drugged and breathing deeply, Dean had silently cursed Ishim in every language he knew and then some, but hadn't let tears fall. His fury with the other man is building now, and now that he knows his name he's out for blood. Before, when Cas’ abusive ex had just been a nameless, faceless shadow it was harder to be angry with him because he had no focus point for his fury. Now that he does, Ishim better watch his fucking back. Dean is convinced he has something to do with all this, but even if he doesn't? Dean wants his head on a stick, and that's just the start.

Cas is downstairs now, watching a nature documentary on TV an wrapped in a blanket. Again, when he woke, it took a little while for his memory to return, longer than it had in the hospital but Dr. Shepherd had said that was normal after a change of scenery but it should ease in a day or two. Jimmy has been and gone, packed and ready to head back to New York for a few days, full of complaints and apologies and promises to call Cas as soon as he lands. Dean has made them all a late lunch and has left Cas and Jimmy alone now so that he can head upstairs to shower and change the bedsheets, and just decompress for a moment or two.

Freshly showered, water droplets sprinkling the bedroom floor and a towel around his waist, he pads over to the dresser and rifles through the drawers for clothing, just as his phone starts to ring. It's Benny, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief as he answers.

“Brother. Tell me you have some good news for me. Someone I can take all this pent-up aggression out on.”

“Uhm,” Benny stalls and Dean frowns. “No, that ain't exactly it.”

“Then what?” He pulls a soft Academy sweater out and tugs it on. “What's up, man? You sound off.”

“Where you at, Dean? Can you swing by the station?”

“In a few hours, yeah. Just getting Cas all sorted at home. Why, what's up?”

“Just want to run through a few things,” Is it him, or does Benny sound vague as hell? “I'll see you then, Dean.”

And the line disconnects, leaving a nasty feeling in the pit of Dean’s stomach. Benny had called him _Dean_ twice during that call. Not cher, not brother, but _Dean_. He rarely does that, so that must mean something is wrong. Do they have a lead they aren't happy about? Do they have no lead at all and Benny is dreading telling him? Has the case gone cold? Maybe the guy has struck again. Dean tugs on his jeans, dries his hair with a towel, then heads back out onto the landing.

As he descends the stairs, he pauses for a moment just to look at Cas. His husband is sitting where he left him on the sofa, back to Dean, and Jimmy is gone. The nature documentary is finished in lieu of something about archeology which could send Dean to sleep easily. Cas’ sandwich is untouched on the coffee table. But that isn't the only thing that makes the hair on the back of Dean’s neck prickle and stand on end. Cas is looking at his phone, and frowning.

Castiel’s phone was broken in the attack, he doesn't have it back. He doesn't _have_ a phone and although Dean would happily lend his if Cas wanted to make a call, send a text or play word games, the phone in his hand doesn't belong to Dean. It's a flip phone, clearly cheap with a crack in the screen, so clearly not new, and although he's too far away to see properly he's sure Cas is reading a text message on it. The information refuses to compute as he stares. Cas with an unfamiliar phone in his hand, frowning at it. It jars painfully with the knowledge of Cas being out alone that night and although Dean had spent hours reassuring himself it was nothing untoward he's never quite been able to put the possibilities out of his mind. Cas says he doesn't remember why he was out, but there had always been a fleeting look in his eyes when he said it. And now this secret phone… a sinking feeling materialises within Dean, and he takes the rest of the stairs in two long strides.

He's fully intent on confronting Cas and approaches the sofa to do so, certain he will catch him with the phone and be able to quiz him. Maybe Cas just found it, his subconscious rationalises. Maybe it's Jimmy's. _Yes,_ he thinks with a swell of relief, _Jimmy must have given him it. Nothing to worry about._

But when he reaches the sofa, less than ten seconds after descending the stairs, Cas turns and smiles up at him and the phone is gone. He's got the barely-nibbled sandwich in his good hand and is looking up expectantly, waiting for Dean to speak, but now the words stall and falter on his tongue. Without practice, there's no way Cas could conceal something from him that quickly. He's a cop, for God’s sake, he notices these things.

Unless…

Unless Cas _does_ have practice.

Oh fuck.

A cold nausea threatens and he stares down into the clear blue eyes of his husband, searching desperately for something, _anything_ to reassure him or to implicate him. Either way, something for Dean to grasp onto and either confront or explain away. The thing is, Cas’ smile doesn't look at all forced. The glimmer in his eyes looks genuine, and his shoulders are relaxed and free of tension. He doesn't look like he's hiding anything at all. But that fact alone is frightening disconcerting because, as Dean is becoming more and more certain of every day, Castiel is hiding something.

And now, now that he's seen Cas with a secret phone in his hand, one that was instantly hidden away the second he appears, he has proof. Castiel, his husband, is hiding something. And the possibilities make him feel like crying


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry?

_The evening is cool and damp at this time of night. The drive has been an easy one, a quick one, and he watches from the safety of his car as people walked past, buoyed by food and alcohol as they wandered the streets, laughing and joking with each other in an easy camaraderie. He isn’t sure why he’s been called here, but he had dressed and left the house in a hurry, unwilling to make the other man wait too long. He exits the car, locking it with the remote and pocketing the keys as he jogs across the street. The bar is familiar and as he pushed open the door he’s accosted with the smell of sticky-sweet alcohol and cologne. He wanders through the throng of people, searching. He asks the bartender but the mohawked woman shrugs and shakes her head. His phone vibrates with a text and he heads outside, turning sharply down a dark alley at the side of the bar where the music still pounds loud enough for words to become nonsensical blurs._

_“Hello?”_

_Cas frowns, stepping a little further into the alleyway. The light here is diminished and he squints until his eyes adjust. He can see a figure loitering at the end, right near the chain-link fence, and the person is achingly familiar. Relief washes over him and he smiles, walking down with purpose now, unconcerned for his safety._

_“Why are you waiting for me back here? It's so late. Is everything alright?”_

_He gets closer, close enough to see the man’s face and smiles, waiting for a response and a smile in return. A smile that never comes._

_“You came. I didn't think you would.” His voice is cool and low, Cas has to strain to hear him._

_“Of course!” He's stunned, appalled at the suggestion that he wouldn't have. That he would have just stayed in bed. “I'll always come when you call.”_

_“Good. That's good, Castiel. I'm glad you're here. Did I wake you?”_

_“Is everything alright?” He frowns, an uneasiness creeping over him. The alleyway is dark and he shivers, chilled. “I wasn’t sleeping, I was reading in bed.”_

_“Is insomnia plaguing you again?” The voice is soft, sweet, concerned, and a warm hand runs up his arm. “Is there anything I can do to help?”_

_“No, nothing.” The touch sends a shiver in its wake. He glances back down the alley at the sound of laughter, watches a group make their way past arm-in-arm. “Is everything OK?”_

_“It is now that you're here,” comes the cryptic reply, and an arm comes around Castiel’s shoulders to draw him closer. The man leans in, presses his face into Castiel’s neck, and inhales. “You smell incredible. You always do.”_

_“I had a shower before bed,” he glances back towards the street, feeling increasingly uneasy. “Look, let’s go somewhere and talk. Somewhere more-“_

_“Private?” He’s pulled even closer and he tenses, spooked. “This is private enough, Castiel.” A hand runs down his back to press him tight against the other man, pulling their hips together, and the hard line of an erect cock pushes against his thigh. Cas turns his head away, tries to pull back._

_“Not here. Let’s go inside, come on-“_

_The blow comes from nowhere and sends him back against the wall, gasping. His vision blurs as he’s manhandled to face the wall, blood trickling down his chin from a split lip._

_“What- what are you-“_

_“Shut up.” Rough hands come up to twist both wrists behind his back and he’s shoved further against the brickwork, his legs kicked apart. Then a hand grips his hair and yanks his head back before slamming his face into the wall. His cry is low and muffled - it happens again and he sways, falling backwards into the arms of his attacker who laughs menacingly in his ear, breath wet and hot on his skin._

_Dazed, ears ringing and mouth slick with his own blood, Cas goes easily when he's shoved to his knees. Rough hands drag at his jeans, yanking them open and the button goes skittering off somewhere. He tries to draw breath to cry out but a hand at his throat stops him, and he looks up into the beautiful green eyes of his husband, now blazing with hate and fury. Dean grips his jaw and spits in his face before throwing him backwards against the wall and unleashing a vicious uppercut that snaps his head back and sends stars cascading across his vision. Bile fills his mouth and mingled with coppery blood._

_“No…” Cas whispers, feeling the world start to tilt violently as he's dragged across the dirty tarmac and forced onto his stomach. “No, no, Dean, please…_ please _…”_

*

Castiel wakes up screaming.

Again.

*

The days pass in a jumbled blur and he sleeps a lot. His world is upside down, back to front, and every kind of shaken up you can imagine. His memory waxes and wanes as the days pass, and he has nightmares every time he tries to get some sleep. The flashbacks, too. They come with force and with no mercy, some so intense he's left gasping and shaking, others just the barest hint of a memory, suggestive and coy, lurking behind an uttered sentence or an innocent gesture.

But Dean is there. Always, Dean is there. Waiting on him hand and foot, helping him up and down the stairs when he struggles, making nutritious meals and bringing him painkillers and handing him books and journals to keep him occupied, and tending to Ruby. When Cas says that he wants to go out for the first time, to try and walk Ruby alone, Dean baulks and insists they go together. Which, in hindsight, was a sensible suggestion as Cas can’t walk as far as he’d hoped and as his exhaustion mounts so does his confusion; Dean has to walk them home slowly with an arm around Castiel’s waist as he leans on him heavily, blinking back tears and apologising profusely for being so weak. Dean says it’s OK, but he says everything is OK these days.

He had come back from the station the other day tense and irate, almost seeming offended by something. Cas has overheard conversations between him and Benny and their easy friendship now seems strained. He hasn’t been into work for a while, and passes it off as sick leave to look after Cas but something seems off. Dean doesn’t talk to him about the case anymore which is fine because Cas doesn’t want to think about it. He just wants the person found and removed from society so they can’t hurt anyone else the way he’s been hurt.

He sleeps a lot. Dean always wants to sleep in the same room, but Cas wants to be alone. They don’t fight over it, but he can see the hurt and disappointment in Dean’s eyes whenever he retreats to bed alone. Once, late one night, Dean had padded quietly into their bedroom with tear-streaked cheeks and climbed onto the bed behind Cas, on top of the covers and full of whispered apologies about how he didn’t want to sleep alone and please could he sleep with him for a while. Cas had been cuddled up against Ruby under the blankets and had tensed involuntarily at the feel of Dean behind him. At the smell of his peppermint shower gel and buttery-sweet shampoo. An uncontrollable wave of nausea had flooded through him and he had sat up, hand to his mouth, and climbed out of bed. The last thing he saw, as he cast a sorrowful look back over his shoulder as he left the room to go sleep on the couch, was Dean gazing at him with heartbreak in his eyes. Ruby had followed him, ever the loyal best friend, but none of them had slept that night.

A week passes. He talks to people from work, they send flowers and cards, but it’s all a blur to his fractured mind. Jimmy calls daily, multiple times, and it helps. His brother tells him little anecdotes that centre him and help him remember, and he feels like he’s getting there. He sometimes remembers that he and Dean are married, but then the following day they feel like nothing more than two guys who have been on a few dates. There’s a distance between them, one Dean keeps trying to bridge but Cas can’t let him. He sighs, turns over in bed, Ruby fidgeting behind him, and slides a hand under the pillow feeling for the item he knows is there. The phone. His fingers curl around it then flinch back as he hears Dean moving about in the next room. He hasn’t told Jimmy about it, is afraid to. Afraid of what it all might mean. The door cracks open and he hears Dean whisper his name but he feigns sleep, wanting to be left alone. Ruby snorts. The door closes and it’s dark again.

He traces the scars on his abdomen and arm. He remembers those far too well. The pain, the fear, the sickness that plagued him afterwards at his own weakness, staying with a man who abused him. A voice in his head nags at him and he shoves it back, viciously, trying to conjure up the memories Dean seems to cling to so fervently. Memories of their wedding day: the photos he had been shown had triggered nothing. Memories of vacations they’d been on: it’s all a blank. Tension wraps itself around his chest and he turns to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling into nothingness.

He’s afraid to fall asleep. Afraid of the dreams that swirl to the surface as they leave him feeling nauseous and shaken when he wakes from them, screaming and sightless. But are they dreams? Or memories?

*

Then it's time for his follow-up with Dr. Shepherd and Cas goes willingly. Dean drives him there and drops him off, promising to come back after the scheduled two hours to pick him up. Cas’ stomach clenches as he gets out of the car in fearful anxiety. But what he's afraid of he isn't exactly sure. Dean’s bright white smile sends him on his way, and his spine tingles with the feeling of being watched as he walks into the hospital alone. He wanted to go alone. Wanted to test his own strength and abilities, and although it's slow going since he sticks close to the wall and flinches any time someone comes too close, he counts it as a small victory when he makes it to Shepherd’s floor. The perky intern with bouncy red hair tells him to take a seat and wait, and Shepherd would be with him soon. So he sits, he waits, and he thinks.

He hates this place. Hates everything about it: the smells, the paint on the walls, the way the staff’s shoes squeak on the linoleum flooring, the flurry of activity that seems to accompany pagers bleeping. He wants to go home. But then again, he's beginning to hate it there, too. Nothing is familiar to him and everything is difficult. He can't even do the things he loves the most: study his beloved textbooks and play the piano. Both are out of bounds, the piano possibly forever. He chokes a little at that thought, drawing a curious stare from the woman passing with a small child in tow, and he averts his eyes. He’ll play again. He _will_ play again. This is just an intermission he's forced to sit through. His cheeks feel damp and he rubs them with the back of his hand.

“Castiel?” Dr. Shepherd is standing over him, wearing a white coat and a smile. “It's good to see you again, you're looking well. Why don't you come through?”

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to stand up; he's over-anxious so his coordination is a bit more affected than normal and he stumbles forward into the table, knocking it and sending magazines slithering everywhere. Eventually, cheeks aflame, he follows Shepherd into his consulting room and sits up on the gurney as directed. He goes through the motions: answering the required questions correctly and allowing the other man to look into his eyes and test his strength, coordination, and reflexes. Then they get to the talking part, the part Cas was dreading the most.

“It's so frustrating,” He frowns and glances out of the window, hugging himself. “Not being able to recall what happened. I feel useless, like I'm deliberately standing in the way of their investigation, somehow.”

“Castiel, you mustn't put that pressure on yourself.” Shepherd marks something in his notes. “You're recovering from major physical and sexual trauma, nobody thinks you're doing this deliberately.” He eyes his patient who had visibly cringed at his last sentence. “Have you spoken to our therapists yet? Or the rape counsellor I recommended to you?”

“No.” Cas won't meet his eyes. “Not yet. I… I can't. I don't want to talk about… that.”

“I know you don't want to, but it's an important part of your recovery. Burying how you feel about it all will just make it much more difficult in the long-run.”

“That's half the trouble, I don't know _how_ I feel about it all because I can't get it all straight in my head. I can't even remember most of it.” Some of it. He remembers the parts that matter. The most painful, traumatic parts. “I'm just not ready for discussing and dissecting it all, not yet.”

“I understand. Just try not to leave it too long.” Shepherd snaps his clipboard shut and sits back. “And how are you generally? Glad to be home?”

“Yes,” Cas looks at his hands.

“You don't sound particularly sure about that.” Shepherd recaps his pen.

“I am. It's just… odd. It doesn't feel like my home, everything is out of place. And Dean…”

Dean. The man who is currently the centre of his universe for a myriad of reasons. He both craves his touch and is afraid of him. But the latter is beginning to take over in a way he can't ignore for much longer. His senses are screaming at him every time Dean comes close, and he's been trying to discern if that reaction is to do with the rape, the general residual shock and upset from the attack, or something a little more sinister.

“Can… can I ask you something?” Cas is a shade paler, his eyes wide and flitting nervously from one corner of the room to the next as Dr. Shepherd releases the blood pressure cuff from his arm and sits back.

“Of course, anything.”

“What if…” Putting a voice to these fears feels damning in itself, and Cas battles with a wave of guilt. But he's desperate for someone to talk to, almost trembling with the need to let it all out, the thing he's so frightened of. And Shepherd has always been so kind… He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, then says, “What if it was Dean who did this?”

There's a loaded, stunned silence and Cas cracks an eye open to see Shepherd scrutinising him with fresh concern in his eyes. He has pretty eyes, Cas thinks vaguely, then chastises himself for being distracted. This keeps happening, his focus wandering. He tries a couple of times to wind his fingers together and eventually manages it.

“Castiel. Is there a reason you're asking this?”

“I keep having these dreams…” Castiel falters then stops, staring at his hands, his vision blurring as panic threatens to take over. He feels intensely disloyal to Dean by even speaking the words, but the discomfort and blatant fear that has started to plague him over the last week are becoming too difficult to ignore. And who else can he talk to? Not Sam, that's for sure. Not Jimmy, his brother would be on a plane within ten minutes of his phone call and Jimmy is so erratic and emotional that it just wouldn't end well. It would break him and Dean up. Or, a nasty little voice in the back of his mind whispers, it could prompt Dean into acting in anger...

"What kind of dreams?" Shepherd's voice is soft, encouraging.

"Of that night..." Cas cringes, shivering. "Mostly I can't see his face, I can only feel what he's doing to me. But then at the end, always at the end, it's Dean. And he looks so..." Manic. Euphoric. Triumphant. The expressions on his dream-husband's handsome face make Castiel feel ill.

"Dreams aren't always reliable as memories though, Castiel," Shepherd sits forward, gazing intently at his patient as he sits up on the gurney. Castiel looks pale and worried, and he doesn't look like he's gained much weight from being at home and eating normally again. He doesn't look much better at all, and he definitely hasn't improved to the degree Shepherd had hoped for. "They are often a way for our subconscious to interpret our worries and fears."

"I know, I understand that," Castiel all but snaps. He's an academic, for god's sake. He _knows_ that. But that knowledge doesn't seem to be stopping the creeping dread that has settled around his heart, telling him that something is wrong. "But it's just..."

He trails off. How can he explain it? There's just something amiss. It's in the way Dean looks at him, and it's in the way he almost obsessively seems to need to be near him, watching him, making sure they aren't too far apart at any given time. He's sure that could be explained away as concern for his well-being, but the nagging feeling in his stomach doesn't agree. He feels suffocated.

"Castiel. Is there something else?" Shepherd is frowning, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and Castiel hangs his head.

"I found... something. A phone. I think it must be mine, it's really old and crappy but... I know it's mine." He tails off and Shepherd has to prompt him to go on. "And... it's full of text messages. Warning me... warning me about Dean. That he has a temper and that I should be careful," His voice cracks on the final word and he ducks his head; Shepherd rests a comforting arm on his shoulder.

"Who are the messages from? Are they from someone you trust?"

"I don't know who they're from." Cas wipes his eyes on his sleeve. "I didn't save the number, and I don't dare call them because... I just don't."

"I understand. In your current frame of mind, with the level of confusion you're experiencing, it's completely natural to be cautious about things like this." He can almost see the cogs turning in the neurosurgeon's mind. "Have you replied to the messages in the past?"

"No. Most of them, no. Some I have, just telling whoever it is to leave me alone. The dates... it goes back a while." _To before the wedding,_ his mind nudges him. _To a week or two before their wedding day._ Does that mean something?

Shepherd is frowning, concerned, and is focused entirely on Castiel's words. "Have you shown the phone to Dean?"

"No. Something tells me I shouldn't."

"To the police?"

"No..." Cas trails off again. He _can't_ show the police, he just can't. That combined with his own worries about his husband would likely lead to Dean's arrest and his heart breaks at the thought. This all feels too much, too crazy: Dean wouldn't hurt him, would never hurt him. Dean _loves_ him. But then why does he feel so tense and twitchy around him? Why was he being warned away from the man he loves by an anonymous stranger on the end of a phone?

“Does Dean have a temper? That you're aware of?”

 _No_ , is the immediate answer to come to Castiel’s lips. He doesn't, he never has. But then, neither had Ishim. His was a quiet, manipulative type of fury, he rarely yelled. Dean rarely yells. The comparison makes him shudder and he fights a wave of nausea. Ishim had loved him for a long time before he turned on him and broke him down so unbearably. Dean loves him now, but for how long? A voice in his mind screams in anguish at him; Dean is his _husband_ , they’re _married_ , of course Dean loves him. He feels sick and wraps his arms more protectively around himself. How can he be thinking this, saying these words? He's awful, he's the worst person in the world. All Dean has done is look out for him, and yet here he is committing the worst type of betrayal ever. He shivers and pulls the sleeves of his sweater down over his hands. The fibreglass of the cast scratches at his fingers. He's sick of feeling so muddled and confused, of remembering the pain of that night but not why he was there or who he was with. He's sick of not remembering Dean properly, of having hazy gaps in his recollection of their time together. And that alone is frightening him: is his mind intentionally keeping things from him? Isn't there some medical terminology for that? _Has_ Dean hurt him in the past? Does he have a temper that Castiel can't remember?

An image of Dean, green eyes blazing as he stands over him, comes to mind and Cas cringes, lowering his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

Shepherd nudges his shoulder and asks again, the same question. But instead of saying no, the words that leave his lips are: “I don't know.”

“Castiel.” Shepherd is more serious than he's ever seen him before. “If you genuinely feel that Dean is a threat to you and you're concerned for your safety, this is serious. I implore you to tell a person of authority.”

Castiel is silent for a long time. Then, head downcast and speaking almost to himself in a tone of utter devastation, he says,

“Aren't you a person of authority?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% happy with this chapter but it got me through my little stint of writer's block on this. 
> 
> And... sorry? But some of you saw this coming...

Dean’s nerves are shot to hell. He’s exhausted, isn’t sleeping, and he and Cas have spent a tense evening barely speaking to each other at all. Ever since his appointment with Dr Shepherd the previous day, Cas has been jumpier and more withdrawn than usual and most of the day has been spent in less than companionable silence. He had tried with forced cheerfulness to find out what Dr Shepherd had said, hoping for good news, but Cas had clammed and just shrugged, avoiding Dean’s gaze. Now, they’re sitting on opposite sides of the kitchen island eating dinner together but he can tell Cas just wants to slink off to bed. Ruby is already upstairs in their bedroom, probably shedding all her fur over their sheets, and to be honest he doesn’t blame Cas for wanting to join her. He’s getting a bit sick of the thick silence between them, it’s doing his nerves no good whatsoever.

“Finished?”

He whips Cas’ empty plate away before his husband can even answer, dumping it in the sink along with his in a resounding clatter of crockery and cutlery. His nerves are fractured and he knows he isn’t hiding it well but damn, he’s so stressed out. Things with Cas are bad, things with the case aren’t going too well and he’s starting to feel like an ant under a magnifying glass, things with Cas are _worse…_ He grips the edge of the island and tries to rein in the frustration mounting within him. Everything is getting on top of him and when he tries to turn his hand to one thing something else just seems to fall apart. He misses Cas, misses their old life, and wants nothing more to be going about his day as normal and curling up with his husband on the couch after dinner. It’s too much to hope for that it will happen tonight.

“I think… I’m just going to go to bed, Dean.” Cas’ voice is quiet, careful, as though he’s trying to keep Dean calm and not irritate him. The problem is, Dean’s already irritated and beyond frustrated by the entire situation. So the whiny note to Cas’ voice is like nails on a blackboard to his increasing temper.

“Can’t we watch some TV or something? Hang out? Try and be, you know, _us_ again?” It comes out harshly - no wonder Cas recoils and Dean berates himself. _Nice one, asshole, scare the crap out of your already traumatised partner. Good one._

“No… not tonight. I need to get some sleep, Dean, I’m exhausted-“

“It’s only eight at night, Cas. What are you, ninety?” Dean snaps, regretting it but unable to take it back. Cas flushes, his brow furrows, and he pushes his stool away from the island. “Sit down with me and watch some damn TV.”

“No, Dean. I said no. I’m going to bed.” Cas’ blue eyes flash and his voice doesn’t waver this time. “I want to go to sleep and I don’t want to watch TV.”

“Then what, Cas? What do you want to do?” And it’s a much more complex question than it sounds. Dean doesn’t mean _right now_. He means what does Cas want to do about them? About their future? “Because I don’t have a damn clue what’s going on in your head, Cas! I can’t even begin to know what you want right now!”

“Neither do I, Dean! Do you know how that feels? Of course you don’t, how can you?” Cas is on his feet, moving away towards the stairs now. “Because this happened to _me_ , not to you! Just let me go, please!”

And if that doesn’t sound double-edged Dean doesn’t know what does. A jolt like lightning runs through him and he turns to see Cas retreating, walking away from him, turning his back and that does it. Something inside him caves in and he’s had enough. Had enough of everything, of their living nightmare and of feeling like he’s making it worse with every word he speaks. He’s had enough of being lied to, and he doesn’t care why Cas is doing it - he just wants it to end.

“Stop.” His voice is like ice, a firm command and Cas turns, incredulous. “You’re hiding something, Cas.” His own voice sounds dangerous as it crosses the kitchen and Cas freezes with his hand on the bannister. “I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know why, but I know you are. So why don’t you do us both a favour and just come clean?”

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean.” Cas has paled definitely, and his blue eyes flash with sudden trepidation. “I’m not hiding anything.”

“You are. You are!” An unfamiliar anger is coursing through Dean’s veins and he clenches his fist on the kitchen counter. “Don’t lie to me!” He rounds the island and crosses the hallway, stopping directly in front of his husband who has retreated up the first few steps. “I know, Cas. OK? So stop pretending. I know you’ve got some secret phone, I’ve seen you with it. So just stop bullshitting me, OK? We need to get through this Cas, and I just can’t do it all alone!”

“Dean, please, I don’t know what you-“

“You do! Cas, please, please, just tell me the truth. What’s going on? Who are you calling? Texting, whatever, I don’t even care, just tell me.” His hand darts out to grip Cas’ wrist to stop him from backing away any further and his husband makes a quiet, trapped noise of fear. “Tell me and maybe we can figure all this out. Work out who did this, bring them to justice. Please, Cas, I’m just trying to help you, I swear.”

“Dean, let go…” Cas croaks, his voice barely audible. “Please, I’m not hiding anything. You’re mistaken. Let go of my arm, please…”

He tries to yank his hand away and, in doing so, loses his balance and staggers on the stairs, falling forward into Dean and they both stumble back into the living room. Dean hits the couch with a low _oof_ and releases Cas who has recoiled towards the hallway.

“Cas, I didn’t mean to… look, I just need to talk to you and…”

“No, I need… Dean, I can’t be here with you right now,” Cas is shaking, white-faced, wide-eyed and the blankness in his stare is unnerving. He isn’t thinking clearly at all and Dean tries, mistakenly to reach for him. Cas makes a pained sound then reaches for the handle.

“Wait - Cas, it’s cold out there, don’t!” But the door opens then slams closed and Dean curses loudly. “Cas!”

He yanks open the door, not worrying about grabbing a jacket, and takes off at a jog to the end of the path. It’s colder than he thought and the street gleams with the remnants of the light rainfall that had come down earlier in the evening. Cas is only in a thin t-shirt, and is he even wearing shoes?

“Cas!” He casts about in either direction then sees him running across the street and heading for the nearest corner, heading for the road that wold take him towards the town. But in his weakened state with the remnants of a head injury he isn’t running very fast and, as Dean watches helplessly, Cas catches his foot on a loose slab of paving and goes down hard. “ _Cas!”_

He’s across the road as fast as his legs can get him there but Cas has dragged himself to his feet and is trying to make a run for it again. He isn’t quick enough though and Dean catches up, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him to a stop. Cas struggles, wild, and Dean wraps both arms around him from behind in an attempt to calm him. His own cheeks are wet with tears and he doesn’t know how everything has spiralled out of control so badly but he’s desperate just to get Cas back inside and to calm him down before he hurts himself.

“Cas, please, _please!_ I’m not gonna hurt you, I swear - _uhn,_ ” An elbow connects painfully with his ribs and he grunts in pain as Cas’ struggles renew. He’s quiet, not calling for help, but instead making low whining sobs deep in his throat with distress. Those sounds go straight to Dean’s heart. “Stop it! Stop fighting me, I’m on your side! Cas, I love - _ah!”_ There’s an audible _crack_ and Dean’s head snaps backwards as pain blossoms from the bridge of his nose. Whether intentionally or by accident, Cas has just slammed the back of his head into Dean’s face and, by the immediate feel of it, broken his nose. That does it - the tears come fast and thick and Dean leans forward into his struggling husband and lets out a low cry of despair. “I love you, Cas. I love you, _please_ let me help you. Please stop, just… stop…”

It seems to work. Cas tenses, tries once more to break free of the rigid hold, then his legs give out and he sags in Dean’s arms and they both go down gently, Dean lowering them both to the damp sidewalk. Cas’ hands come up to grip his forearm and his head tips forward in resignation; his shoulders heave with silent sobs and Dean kneels behind him, pressing his face into the nape of his neck and trying to calm his breathing. This isn’t right, this isn’t them. They don’t argue, they don’t fight, not like this. He’s never so much as yelled at Cas before, has never grabbed him in anger, would never… a visual of Cas’ scars swims to the forefront of his mind and he whines quietly, disgusted with himself. Cas has been through hell and back and what’s he gone and done? Made it ten times worse, that’s what. Cas spent so many years of his life afraid at the hands of a man meant to love him, and Dean has potentially just decimated the implicit trust Cas has put in him during the last five years of their relationship. How _could_ he have let his anger get the better of him? How could he let his emotions take control of him like this?

“I’m so sorry, Cas.” He whispers, loosening his grip but still cradling his shaking husband to him, ready to let go at the first sign of distress. “I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to happen, I never meant for any of this. I love you. I love you, I love you so much…”

They kneel on the sidewalk in the dark, haloed by the light from a streetlamp, until they’re both cold and shivering. Dean tries a couple of times to get them up but Cas just clings, trembling. Eventually, when they both get back to the house, Cas climbs the stairs unsteadily to bed without a word, Dean behind him to make sure he doesn’t fall. As the bedroom door closes in his face, Dean catches sight of sad blue eyes and he knows something is broken between them. Something they may never be able to fix.

*

The night is long, cold, lonely and painful. Dean goes over every moment of their fight incessantly until he’s wound up and tearful and furious with himself. Around dawn he gets up and makes coffee just to have something to do, and stands in the kitchen staring vacantly outside as the sky slowly lightens. He hates himself. There’s no other word for how he feels right now. It’s a long time before he hears footsteps above him, the sounds of Cas moving around and dressing and a lump of anxiety takes root in his chest. He doesn’t know what to think or what to do. What the hell can he say to erase the events of the night before?

Cas appears an hour later, red-eyed and pale-faced with Ruby at his heels. He walks unsteadily through the living room with only the briefest glance at Dean, and fumbles for Ruby’s lead. Dean is up from the sofa and across the room in a second, and Cas cringes away from him towards the door.

“I'm going for a walk, Dean. I'll be back later.”

“Cas, please. I'm so sorry about last night. Can we at least try and talk it out?”

“Maybe later…”

Cas’ eyes are darting back and forth and he looks like a trapped animal. At his feet, Ruby is pressing close and fixing Dean with an unpleasant stare. She's only protecting her master, Dean knows this, but it's like a knife to his heart. He’s always thought of Ruby as his dog too, but standing here I the hallway with the pair of them it’s painfully obvious that she isn’t his at all. She’s all Cas’ and will protect him down to her last moments. In a way that’s a comfort to him, knowing that Cas has a flesh and blood guard dog should anyone try to come looking for him, but while Ruby’s dark, intense eyes are turned on him he’s feeling more than a little jittery. Her teeth are awful sharp. He would never hurt Cas, _never_. Last night was all one giant misunderstanding from start to finish and if he can only make Cas see…

“Dean.” There’s a fearful note in Cas’ voice. He’s gripping the handle of the door so hard his knuckles are white. “Please, just let me go out. I need to… I need to walk Ruby.”

“Of course… Cas, anything you want.” He swallows through a lump in his throat. Cas can’t actually think that he would stop him leaving, right? He’s still just shaken up from last night, he must be. He watches as his husband opens the door and slips out, then watches from the hallway window as Cas takes the stairs slowly, gripping the guardrail to steady himself with Ruby’s lead looped around his hand. There’s tension in his shoulders, sadness in his hunched posture, and Dean turns away to lean against the closed door, shutting his eyes.

Everything is going wrong. He had been so full of hope when he had brought Cas home, so convinced that everything would be on an upward curve. He thought the hard part was over and all they both had to do was heal. He had been so heartbreakingly wrong. As every day passes, Cas pulls further and further away from him and over the last couple of days he’s becoming hauntingly convinced that Cas is becoming afraid of him. He’s trying everything he can to make his husband feel safe and secure, and to make sure he has everything he needs, but it’s all backfiring on him. He sees it in the way Cas is so careful not to touch his skin when he passes him anything and in the way he skirts around Dean and ensures he isn’t backed into a corner or alone in a room with no direct access to the exit. Cas is scared of him. And for the life of him he can’t work out why. They don’t sleep in the same bedroom but he hears it, every night: the low cries and the pained moans as Cas struggles with his nightmares. And, interspersed with those sounds, his own name at Cas’ lips and it doesn’t sound like he’s calling for help. It sounds like he’s begging Dean to stop whatever it is he’s doing, and the idea that Cas’ subconscious is overlaying his face onto that of his attacker…

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose in despair. Where is this going to end? He doesn’t want to think of the options. He doesn’t dare call Benny for an update because he’s convinced beyond reasonable doubt that he’s becoming a suspect in their investigations but can’t figure out why. Sure, he was in the area that night but apart from that? That isn’t enough to charge him with anything and he knows that. But for the last week, Benny has kept all his cards close to his chest, has avoided Dean’s calls and when they do speak it’s painfully awkward. When Benny had called him into the station the other day, Dean had been sure it was about a suspect, a breakthrough, _something_. But he couldn’t have been more wrong. An officer he didn’t recognise had taken him to a back room and asked him a multitude of questions about the night of Cas’ attack, then about their relationship. When Dean had eventually lost his temper and demanded to know where this was all going Chief Harvelle had been called in and told Dean in no uncertain terms to calm down or he would be detained for his behaviour. That had instantly quieted him and he had sat in mute shock as Ellen had stood over him and told him he was to help with the investigation in any way he could, and that included answering anything asked of him. He hadn’t slept well that night at all, consumed by his own fears and the low cries from Cas’ room penetrating his wayward thoughts. It’s no wonder he and Cas had fought. The heightened emotions in their house were coming to a head, and he’s afraid to think of what might happen next. He knows Cas isn’t comfortable around him but he doesn’t dare leave - or worse, ask Cas to leave - because he’s afraid of what might happen if his husband doesn’t have protection. Someone out there wants Cas dead, and without him around they would have a straight shot. But they sure as hell can’t carry on as they are.

He takes a seat on the couch and rubs a hand over his face. Then he pulls his phone out and scrolls down his phone book to find Sam’s number, hesitating for a second before hitting dial.

“Hey, Sammy, it’s me. I just… I need to talk. It’s Cas. Well, me and Cas. Things are… well, I’ll explain when I see you. Just call me back, man. I’m outta my depth, here.”

He hangs up and presses the phone to his forehead. Should he call Jimmy? That probably isn’t wise. Cas’ twin would probably be on the next flight over, but with Cas so confused and with so much tension between them he isn’t sure it would help. He sits back, considering. Is he being selfish? Perhaps Jimmy is the person he should be calling so Cas can be looked after. Maybe some time apart would do them good, even though the idea leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. Cas could go back to New York with Jimmy for a while, recover in peace. Get some headspace and space away from Dean. A single tear tracks unbidden down his cheek and he wipes it away savagely, wincing as his knuckles come into contact with his bruised nose, a painful reminder of last night. Yeah, he probably should call Jimmy. But later, when Cas is back and they’ve talked. Maybe he can take Cas to the airport or something, call Dr Shepherd and make sure he’s cleared to fly and see him onto the plane. Perhaps then Cas would realise that Dean does truly love him and just wants the best for him.

He closes his eyes as a wave of sadness washes over him, and a moment later he’s drifting off, mental and physical exhaustion dragging him under. He doesn’t wake for a good hour, and when he does it’s to a heavy pounding on the front door.

“Sammy?”

He’s up and across the hallway, yanking the door open and ready to fall into his brother’s embrace - but he pauses in shock as he sees who is standing before him.

“Chief?” Dean rubs his eyes, his head pounding, and takes in the sight before him. Harvelle stands on his doorstep in her uniform, a strained look on her face, and two officers he doesn't recognise are behind her. At the roadside, two cop cars are pulled up and Benny is standing next to one looking paler than Dean has ever seen him. “Chief… what are you doing here?” A sudden thought strikes him and he feels a swell of nervous excitement. “Have you caught the guy? Have you made an arrest?”

“Where's Castiel, Dean?” Harvelle’s voice is detached and restrained, and something in her eyes makes Dean shiver. She's looking behind him, over his shoulder, then she meets his eyes and her cool stare makes his mouth run dry.

“He's out walking Ruby. Why?” Inside, his phone starts to chime with Sam’s ringtone. His brother is calling him. But it’s too late, something inside him is convinced of that.

“Good. That will make this easier, then,” Harvelle steps back and one of the other officers moves forward and takes Dean’s upper arm, rougher than necessary, and pulls him forward out onto the step. “For what it’s worth, Dean, I’m sorry.”

“You're… what the hell’s going on? Get off me, man!” Dean turns, anger flaring in his chest and entwining with sudden fear as his other arm is caught and pulled behind him. There's a clink of metal - a familiar, _too_ familiar sound and he freezes in shock. Hands take both his wrists and pull them close, then he's cuffed securely. He raises horrified eyes to meet Ellen Harvelle’s, the woman who has taught him so much of everything he knows, and suddenly he's filled with cold fear. She opens her mouth, and he already knows what she's about to say but it doesn't help the impact of her words. All he can do is stand there and listen.

“Dean Winchester, you're under arrest for the rape, aggravated assault, and the attempted murder of Castiel Novak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm no expert at all on US legal proceedings, everything I know is through research. And this is the first thing I've ever written in this vein and I've definitely encountered a few new challenges! So if there are any small errors I do apologise, and I'm doing my very best! ♥ )


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive any legal inaccuracies, I've done my very best.

Dean knows the inside of the interrogation rooms intimately. Has paced the floors countless numbers of times, has sat at the sturdy table, has stared at his own reflection in the mirror. But during all his previous stints in this room he was the one in charge. The one in the driving seat. Not this time. This time he's sitting meekly at the table, an untouched bottle of water in front of him, playing the waiting game. He's shivering so much his teeth almost chatter despite the warmth in the room. It's a tactic, he knows it is. Hell, he practically wrote the damn book on interrogation tactics for his force. Make the suspect so uncomfortable that they can't relax and they slip up. Make them wait for a long time, alone with nothing but their thoughts and their pale reflection for company. Make the room too hot or too cold, so much so that they can't settle. Make them sweat. 

He's sweating now. Fearful, although he would never admit it, for a hundred reasons. Cas, to start with. Cas at home alone and unprotected while some crazed murderer has his sights on him. He must be confused, scared, and the idea of his husband coming home to find him gone and officers in his place… How will Cas react? Anger? Denial? Will he demand to see Dean, cause a scene and vehemently deny Dean having anything to do with it? He swallows down fear of the alternative: Cas knowing his arrest was coming and having some involvement in it. Because that would destroy him. Cas is sick, he knows that. But if he ever thought Dean would do  _that_  to him…? What does it say about the core of their relationship if Cas could find those doubts within him? He picks at the label on the water bottle with trembling hands. He's afraid for himself, too. He knows Harvelle doesn't make arrests lightly, so they must have some evidence to tie him to the scene. He only hopes he can convince them they're wrong. He's holding onto the fact that DNA evidence was left at the scene that categorically does not belong to him. What else can there possibly be?

There's a noise from the door and a dark-haired, hard-faced detective walks in, someone Dean knows by his (unpleasant) reputation alone. Detective Stein is a hardass and not someone Dean is keen to tangle with. His heart sinks at the sight of him. He wants Benny, although he knows logical that would never be allowed. Benny would believe him, right? Benny would be on his side, surely…

The scrape of a chair on the floor jolts him to the present and he looks up to see recognition swirling in the detective’s expression as he takes his seat. Not shock, not horror, not defiance on his behalf. No, Stein looks unsurprised, like he's been waiting his whole career for this moment. Dean swallows, mouth dry. 

“You haven't touched your water, Dean.” Stein sits back in his chair with an air of cool dislike. 

“No shit. Look, can we just get on with this charade so I can get back to Cas?” Dean leans back and folds his arms. “I assume you've got a team watchin’ out for him since, you know, there's someone out there who wants his blood on their hands.”

“Don't worry about what Cas is doing, or what we're doing.” Stein places a file on the table and folds his hands. “Worry about yourself right now, Dean. We need to have a little chat.”

“Really? Why’s that? Because last I heard, you have to actually have some  _evidence_  to arrest someone. I would know you see, it's kinda my thing. I catch the bad guys. I don't turn into them.” He's glaring now, barely keeping his frustration in check, but it seems to be having little effect on his companion. “So do you wanna tell me why you dragged my ass down here so we can straighten all this out and get back to our jobs? Because the way I see it,” He spreads his hands, palms up. “You ain't got jack on me, pal. Barking up the wrong damn tree and I swear when I'm outta here I'm going to make sure you do nothing but push pens around for the rest of your career.”

Stein is quiet for a moment, regarding Dean with cool curiosity. It makes him twitch. He knows that look, he  _invented_ that look. And now some punk kid is trying to use it against him?

“I'm not a killer, man. You know it, Harvelle knows it, this whole damn team knows it.  _My_  damn team. So ask your questions so I can get the hell back to Cas and so you can concentrate on actually  _finding_  this guy.”

“That's exactly what we're concentrating on, Dean. And since you asked so nicely, I'll let you in on our latest development. We think there were two people involved in what happened to Castiel. One who was at the crime scene and acted out the wishes of a second, a more dominant person with an agenda. Does that sound plausible to you?”

“I guess.” Dean frowns. “So you wanna explain why you've dragged me in here if you should be out looking for two guys instead of one?”

“Because we have concerns, Dean, and need to talk to you about them.”

“Concerns? What-”

“Yes, Dean. A few things have come to light in the last week or so and we wanted to bring you in and have a little chat about them, if you're amenable to that.” Stein folds his arms. His suit jacket is a little tight for him and bunches at the elbows. “You want to help Castiel, yes? Well, the best way to do that is to be as helpful and willing as you can. Can you do that for me, Dean?”

The condescension in Stein’s voice is repulsive and Dean wants to knock him on his ass but he remains mutinously silent, nodding his head in a jerky fashion, not trusting himself to speak. 

“Excellent.” Stein smiles unpleasantly. “Let's get started.”

They talk for over an hour as Dean recounts exactly where he was the day of Castiel’s attack and in the hours leading up to it. Stein writes notes, Dean fidgets, and overall it’s a crappy way to spend his time. He's soon feeling raw and exposed and is trying not to be too hurt that his colleagues were so keen to bring him in. They know this is all bullshit, surely. So does Cas. Right?

“Who is your medical insurance with, Dean? And your life insurance?”

“Uh,” He draws a blank. “Dunno, Cas handles all this sort of stuff.” He should know this, he was in touch with their medical insurers only last week about Castiel’s treatment, but maybe it's the situation or the stress because he can't think of their name. “I can't remember. Why do you need to know?”

“Do you remember this phone call, Dean?” Stein slides a sheet of paper across the desk and Dean takes it, frowning. It's a transcript of a phone call he apparently made to his insurance company, judging by the address details at the top. A quick scan reveals it's a discussion of his and Castiel’s joint life insurance policies. 

“Vaguely. I remember calling them but not what I said. But you've got it all here, right?” He flicks the sheet of paper; the impact of his fingernail makes an audible crack. 

“We do. Have you read it, Dean? You seemed particularly interested in the details of Castiel’s policy and the circumstances it covered should anything happen to him.”

“I was?” Dean frowns, reading. “I don't remember that. Cas probably asked me to confirm details or something. Like I said, he normally deals with this sort of thing.”

“So he asked you to confirm the…” Stein spins the sheet of paper to face himself. “‘Type of accident that would have to occur’ and the ‘time period after taking out the policy’? Those things in particular?”

“What?” Dean stares, nonplussed. “Well, no not exactly, but…”

“Is there a particular reason you were so interested in those details?”

“No, of course not!” His face is heating up and, rereading the words in front of him, he feels a spike of worry. That looks bad. He doesn't even remember the call never mind why he had worded his queries like that. It must have been all off-the-cuff. He probably wasn't even focusing on what he said, was probably thinking about his dinner or something. “This has nothing to do with anything, how did you get it anyway?”

“I'm sure Harvelle mentioned we would be taking a look at your and Castiel’s phone records,” Stein says easily, his voice slick and greasy as he leans back in his chair. 

“Well yeah, but in order to find the guy who did this, not pin the blame on me!” Dean snaps, his skin burning with indignation and the humiliation of it all. 

They can't really think he did this, surely? Or that he was involved at all?  _Two_  people? His mind whirs on that fact and it just doesn't seem plausible to him, but then again he's been shunted from this investigation for a while now. Unless they only think it's two people because they think they've caught one of the two culprits… He shivers, blood icy in his veins. Stein is watching him battle with his thoughts calmly without saying a word. Dean knows this tactic, too. Let the suspects stew and work themselves up until they give something away. He's used this successfully on people before, normally prior to wrapping the case up like a parcel and presenting it all to the suspect before sitting back and watching their face whiten as they realise they've been caught. 

There's a knock at the door and Dean scrubs a face over his hand, thankful for the break. Stein gets up and has a swift, hushed conversation outside in the corridor that Dean isn't privy to. When he comes back, he's holding something in a bag, something quite long, and he puts it down near his own chair out of sight. He gestures again to the water bottle. 

“You look stressed, Dean. Have a drink. Relax a little.”

“Relax?” It comes out as a growl. “You've accused me of trying to kill my husband. Not much relaxing about that.”

“We're trying to find out who wanted to kill Castiel and why,” Stein corrects, his grey eyes cold as he watches Dean. “But we do happen to think you had some involvement,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, and Dean bristles. He's exhausted and this is bullshit, it really is. 

“Get to the goddamn point then,” he snaps, pushing the water away from him petulantly. “Because, correct me if I'm wrong, but being in the wrong place at the wrong time and making a call to my insurance company isn't enough to cuff me. You got anything else, or can I go?”

Stein is quiet, assessing him, and the cool stare unnerves Dean. He knows there must be something else, they wouldn't be carrying on this way if not. But for the life of him he can't think what that could be. He hasn't  _done_  anything. 

“Do you have a tyre iron in your garage, Dean?” The officer’s tone is neutral but Dean knows better. Nothing about this is neutral. He's more shaken by the records of the telephone conversation than he’ll happily let on, and the cool expression on the officer’s face is making him antsy. He cranes his neck to see what's in the bag but it's well-concealed. He nods slowly. 

“Yeah. Most guys I know have one. Why do you need to know?”

“Have you used it lately for anything?” 

“Excuse me?” Dean leans forward. “I really don't like what I think I'm hearing, pal.”

“I'm simply asking, Dean, if you've seen it lately. That's all.”

“Alright then no, I haven't. Been a bit preoccupied these days, haven't had time to do inventory of the garage.” A creepy feeling is climbing his spine. Why is he being asked this? “You got a point you wanna get to?”

“I do, actually.” The officer folds his hands on the table in front of him and regards Dean coldly. “Your house was searched top to bottom after your arrest, as I'm sure you expected. No tyre iron was found in the garage. In fact, in such a complete kit it was noticeably missing.”

“It… can't be.” Dean frowns, trying to think back to when he last used it. “I'm always really careful…”

“But you've been slipping up a bit lately, have you Dean? Haven't been covering your tracks as well as you thought. Do you want to know what I think happened to Castiel?” DI Stein leans forward and Dean tenses, ready for whatever is coming. This is undoubtedly the point where Stein throws out his theory. He doesn't have to wait long. “I think he was set up. I think he was sent to that bar under the pretence of meeting someone he loves. And when he got there I think he met an accomplice of someone's. An accomplice of  _yours_ , Dean.” Dean’s whole body tenses. “An accomplice you hired to carry out the hit on Castiel, your husband, because that life insurance policy was looking damn attractive to you and you'd discovered a way of cashing in on it without being caught. So you found someone to do your dirty work for you.”

It's lies, all of it, but Dean can't speak to defend himself, his throat constricting in horror at the accusations. He would  _never…_ His gaze flicks helplessly to the mirror where he knows Harvelle and Benny will be standing behind it and listening, possibly  _believing_  the tale Stein is spinning. 

“That's right, Dean. You were involved, weren't you? You're the dominant person of the pair, pulling the strings and keeping out of sight so you won't be caught. Obviously, money is a motive for you, we've established that much.” It  _isn't,_ of course it isn't, but the words die in his throat and a sound akin to a squeak leaves his lips instead. Stein pins him with a piercing, unsympathetic gaze which holds a nasty edge. “But there must have been something else. A trigger. Something to push you over the edge and decide to carry out your plan. What was it, Dean? What did Castiel do so wrong?”

“Nothing…” Dean rasps. “He didn't do anything,  _I_  didn't do anything…”

“We’ll come back to that. There's always a trigger, Dean, you know that. And we’ll find it. But I'm more interested in the other person right now. The other man you roped into your crime, the man who would have no problem harming Castiel on your command. Who is it, Dean?” At his blank, horrified stare Stein leans in and repeats his question. “ _Who_?”

“You've got this wrong… I would never…”

“He's someone you must have trusted implicitly to get him tangled up in this mess. You must have known he wouldn't turn you in. Maybe he has a vendetta against Castiel, too. Are you cheating on him, Dean? Is that it? You and your new partner thought you'd clear the way for a new romance?”

“ _No!”_

 _“_ We  _will_  catch him, Dean, before he finishes off what he started. But let's go back to that night. Someone lured Castiel outside and down an alleyway. He would never have gone with anyone he didn't trust, would he Dean? With your line of work he knows the kind of bad guys we catch every day. So it would have to have been someone he knew and trusted if he were to follow them, you must have lucked out getting someone you both know to join in with your little plan. Maybe it was even you, you took him away from the crowds and then left him at the mercy of your hit man. We know you were in the area just before it all happened. I think your accomplice slipped something in his drink in the bar, something to make him confused and pliant and easy to handle so that when he was vulnerable and alone it was easy to strike. Perhaps the rape was planned,” Dean wants to leap across the table and strangle Stein but he can't make a single muscle in his body move. “Or perhaps your hitman just got carried away. We’ll ask when we find him. The rest is history, right Dean? You know the rest since you went to the crime scene mere hours after it happened. Inserted yourself in there like you belonged, dying to see how it all went down. Checking up, making sure nothing was left to tie you to the crime. No DNA samples of yours of course, they belong to your hitman. Maybe a ruse to distract us from your involvement, to keep us looking elsewhere. No knife either, probably at the bottom of a river by now. But between the pair of you, you fucked up, didn't you? Something  _was_  left behind. This.”

And Stein slams something down onto the table so hard that Dean jolts in shock and jerks back as though shot. On the table in a clear plastic evidence bag is something he recognises instantly. Something that belongs to him, something that belongs at home, in his garage, safe. Something from a matching car care set that Sam got him one Christmas. A tyre iron, clean of blood and bagged up as evidence. And all he can do is stare. 

“This  _is_  yours, right Dean?”

Silence. He can do nothing but nod mutely, the severity of the situation coming down on him so hard he loses the breath from his lungs. 

“Perhaps your hitman meant to take it away with him. Or perhaps you were meant to come and remove it. Or maybe you both just fucked up and forgot, the excitement of it all causing you to slip up and leave it where it fell. But either way, you can't deny that the weapon used to deliver the almost fatal blow to Castiel’s head not only belongs to you but was found at the crime scene drenched in his blood-”

“Stop.” It's a whisper, low and barely audible, delivered to his own hands. This can't be happening, this  _cannot_  be happening…

“- after you  _arranged_ for someone to take his life. Is that what happened, Dean? Is that how it went down? And now he's afraid of you. It's coming back to him and he's scared to be in the same house as you. So he reached out for help and now here we are. Have I missed anything?”

“Stein. It… I didn't…” Dean’s voice won't come. Every emotion he's ever felt seems to be swirling just beneath the surface. Cas did this? Cas called them? Oh God, he's gonna be sick. Fear, horror, panic, despair, desperation, pain, betrayal… So much betrayal. He can't process it all, can barely  _think-_

An open palm slams down on the table between them making him jump violently and cry out in shock. Stein is on his feet, dark eyes flashing with triumph and Dean experiences the terrifying feeling of vertigo as he realises he's lost. The evidence is stacked against him and no matter what he says he isn't going to be believed. He wouldn't believe himself if he were the detective conducting the interrogation. His shoulders slump in defeat and he knows when he raises his gaze to meet Stein’s that the other man will see immeasurable amounts of defeat in his once sparkling green eyes. A triumphant grin touches Stein’s lips and he straightens, folding his arms, as Dean speaks. 

“I want a lawyer.”

*

Cas hasn't moved for hours. He's been lying on the sofa with a pillow held to his chest and trying to will the ache between his ribs to fade away. His cheeks are salt-stained and sore and his eyes burn from crying so hard. He knows he should feel safer now, should feel like he's done the right thing but all he feels is all-consuming sorrow. Dean isn't here. Dean is locked up somewhere or being questioned and Castiel is alone. Dean must be terrified, and Castiel caused it all. He hugs the pillow tighter, fighting back another wave of tears. His iPhone bleeps and he lifts it with gargantuan effort to see a text from his twin. 

_[Jimmy] Flight leaves in three hours, I'm on my way to JFK now. Love you, little brother. It will be alright in the end. I'll be there soon._

He lets the phone fall from his hand and it clatters away on the floor. The other phone, the one he’d been keeping secret from Dean is stashed in a kitchen drawer and he never wants to look at it again. What would have happened if he’d shown it to Dean? Would it have made things better? Or worse?

He’d been recommended a safe house for the night and when he declined an armed guard had been offered to him. He had shaken his head no and said he would be fine, just him and Ruby, just like old times. He didn't want them there. They had torn the house apart searching the place and it had taken him hours to put it all back together, the effort accounting for some of his current exhaustion. The rest is down to fear and guilt. Fear of Dean and what will happen but also fear  _for_  Dean and what's happening to him right now. Guilt for calling Dr Shepherd from the park and begging him for help. And the low, nagging worry that he's got it all wrong. 

He wants Jimmy. Wants the security of his brother, someone he knows completely and will always trust. His mind strays, and he wants Dean, a feeling he can't quite push away. Something implicit inside him is starting to unfurl, calling out for the man he married - although he remembers not one minute of that day. He glances down at his left hand and thinks, for the first time, that it looks strangely naked. The feeling passes and, miserable and alone, he hugs the pillow closer and sniffles, wiping his nose on his sleeve. His arm aches inside its cast and he yearns for it to be off so he can move properly again. He wants his dexterity back. He wants his life back. 

He wants Dean. 

Morose and feeling lower than he can ever remember, he dozes fitfully on the couch until Ruby rubs her wet nose in his face and climbs up for a cuddle. 

“What have I done, Rubes?” He whispers into her fur. “What's going to happen now?”

*

It's lonely, preparing dinner for one when he's so used to cooking for two. Cas doesn't trust himself not to fuck up a complex meal so he just microwaves some mac and cheese and stares blankly out of the kitchen window as he waits for it to cook. He takes his phone out and checks it to see if Jimmy has messaged him, then slips it back into his pocket. Nothing. He wishes teleportation had been invented, the silence in the house is killing him. He needs the comfort of his twin. Then, pulling himself somewhat together, he reaches for Ruby’s bowl and ferrets around in the cupboard for her biscuits and canned food. He takes his time preparing it, mixing everything thoroughly, finding comfort in the familiar act. In a few hours, he’ll know whether Dean has been charged or not and the mere thought makes bile rise in his throat and his mouth fills with salvia which he has to choke back. He dumps the dog food spoon into the sink, forcing away the idea of Dean sitting alone in a cold jail cell, and calls for Ruby. A moment later and the kitchen is still silent. He frowns, tries again. It isn't like her not to come when he calls. 

“Ruby! Dinner, c’mon! Ruby!”

But he remains alone in the silent kitchen. Did he forget to let her in? No, she was nosing at his hand not ten minutes ago when he was staring blankly into the refrigerator trying to decide on dinner. Where has she got to? On his bed, probably, making a nest out of his blanket and white puffs of her own fur. He whistles for her, the sound loud and shrill in the stillness of the house, a chill beginning to creep up his spine as only silence greets him. 

“Rubes? Ruby?”

There's a sound from the living room and he turns, squinting into the semi-darkness. Didn't he leave a lamp on? He's sure he did because he was reading by the fire after waking from an unpleasant dream, but now the corner is in darkness, the flames dulled to a weak glow and everything is draped in shadow. But there, something moved over by the piano, he's sure of it. He takes a cautious step forward, gripping the island counter tightly to stop his hand from shaking. 

“Ruby? Are you there?”

Then a voice, low and so painfully familiar, swirls out of the darkness like smoke to wind its way across the room, wrapping him in its toxic embrace. Cas’ entire body goes rigid at the sound of it. 

“She won't come, Castiel.”

And his blood runs cold. His breath is stolen from his chest. His eyes glaze over and he's lost to the memory of that night, the night his life was thrown into freefall, and he  _remembers_. He remembers everything. He can smell the cool evening air outside the bar, taste the bitterness of spiked liquor on his tongue, feel the ground rough against his cheek, can see the smiling face of his attacker… All sensation sweeps from his arms and legs to leave him icy numb and his knees buckle; only the stool in front of him prevents him from crashing to the ground. His cry for help sticks in his throat and when he's finally able to speak again only one low, croaked word comes out. 

“ _You_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr if you wanna... I'll be hiding there.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments on the last chapter. I didn't know how to reply to most of them without giving anything away, but I read all of them and thank you all ❤❤
> 
> Now, back to the story... Not all loose ends are tied up here, so there's still a little bit to go in the final few chapters!

“You've changed, Castiel.” The low, sultry voice still sends chills down Cas’ spine and he swallows, backing away until his hips hit the kitchen island. _No, no, no, this cannot be happening…_

“How did you… What are you…”

The questions won't come, not in full. He's swimming in memory, vertigo gripping him tight and he has to hold onto something to stop himself falling. Things are coming back to him, triggered by that voice, shattered shards of memory falling into place. It's him. His attacker. Sitting in the darkened living room on the couch, in the exact spot Castiel had been in not thirty minutes earlier, and there's something silvery glinting in his hand as it rests on the side table. Then the lamp turns on and Castiel sways, taking in the cold grey eyes, the sharp features, the neatly combed hair and perfectly groomed beard. His thighs ache and his hand comes unconsciously to cover the scar on his left forearm.

Sitting there watching him, calm as ever yet more dangerous than Castiel has ever seen him, is Ishim.

Castiel’s skin crawls at having this man so close to him, in his _home_ , yet he can't make his feet move to get away. He's consumed by snatches of that night, memories of the pain and terror, and finally he's putting the final pieces of the puzzle in place. The drugs in his drink, making him stumble and slur his words so that the bartenders just thought he was being helped out by a friend rather than trying to get away from a violent ex-partner. The text message that roused him from his bed and drew him out into the night in the first place. Ishim smiling as he picked up the tyre iron while Castiel lay dazed and bleeding beneath him…

“You really have changed, haven't you? Scrawniness than I remember. More dull-looking. But then again, you've never exactly been the life and soul of any party, have you?” Ishim’s voice drips with malice and Castiel swallows, dry-mouthed. “Hello, Castiel. It's been a while.”

“Ishim…” It comes out as a croak. “How did you get in?”

“Easily,” The knife glints in the light. “You forgot to lock the back door. Memory problems? Dear me. And at your age? It's a shame…”

The mocking makes rage swirl in his stomach yet terror wins out and he shivers, chilled in the warm room.

“Why?” He manages through dry lips. “Why did you do this?”

“Oh, Castiel, come now. We've talked about this.” Ishim holds the knife up vertically, places the point of it onto the book that Cas was reading, and spins it casually. Talked? Have they? Castiel blinks and long-forgotten text messages flash in front of his eyes. He tries to focus on Ishim and on the weapon he’s holding. The blade is clean, gleaming in the glow of the lamp, and Castiel’s heart rate notches up. “I warned you away from Dean. I told you not to marry him and you didn't listen. You went ahead and did it anyway. I thought I made it fairly plain, Castiel. You're mine. And if I don't get to have you, nobody does.”

“It was you…” He can't speak above a whisper. “This whole time, it was you. How did… how could you…”

“Yes, Castiel.” Ishim sounds almost bored by the subject. “It was me. I'm a little put out that I'm so forgettable to you.”

“But… Chicago, you…”

“Yes, it's a lovely city. But it doesn't hold the same… how can I put it? _Allure_ as Kansas City. There's something here I want.” He shifts in his seat, getting comfortable. “Something that I plan to get.” His smile grows menacingly. “Aren't you happy to see me? Haven't you missed me, Castiel?”

“Dean… It wasn't… Dean didn't…” He feels sick, is certain he's going to throw up as Ishim throws his head back and laughs.

“No, sweet little Dean didn't do a thing. But isn't it amusing that they think he did? That _you_ thought he did? He must be the type. What a betrayal though, Castiel. I wonder how he will ever forgive you for this. His own husband, thinking him a murderer.” Ishim smiles unpleasantly and shakes his head. “No, all Dean ever did was blunder along as he always does and in doing so he painted himself as the perfect suspect. He helped me out immensely. Everyone always thinks it's the spouse anyway, so all I had to do was pull a few strings, plant a few seeds…” Ishim shrugs. “The perfect crime. Except for one thing…”

He stands up and he's taller than Castiel remembers. He's wearing his outdoor coat and a long scarf which makes him seem bigger and more threatening and a cry for help lodges itself in Castiel’s throat as panic begins to rise in his chest. Ishim approaches him like a lion stalking its prey and Castiel still can't move to escape. He's pinned in place, terror choking him as stills from that night swirl before his eyes. The cold ground beneath him, the taste of blood in his mouth. Crawling away, Ishim laughing and following him…

“You weren't supposed to live, Castiel. You were supposed to make it easy and die, but you couldn't even do that right.”

Silence stretches on between them as they stare at each other, sizing each other up, each of them remembering the last time they laid eyes on each other. Because Castiel does remember, now. He remembers it all.

“Where's Ruby?” His voice comes out oddly steadily. Perhaps the thought of his girl is giving him strength, but that strength evaporates leaving ice in his veins as Ishim sneers at him unpleasantly.

“You know I don't like dogs, Castiel. Nasty, smelly, hairy things. So unhygienic and so needy. I never took you for the type to own such a mangy mutt,” Castiel’s anger flares in his chest at those words. “But then you've really fallen from grace, haven't you? Fallen so far from the man I once loved. How can you look yourself in the mirror, I wonder?”

Ishim is creeping closer, stalking him, and Castiel swallows around a lump in his throat.

“I said, where's Ruby?” He tries again but it comes out plaintive this time, pleading. And he is pleading, really. Pleading for the life of the dog he loves, his best friend, the girl who brought him life and hope and gave him a reason to wake up every day before Dean came into his life. He needs her, she needs him. If he's hurt her…

“You don't need her any more, Castiel. All you need is me.” Ishim is close now, so close that Cas can smell his cologne and the scent almost chokes him. The knife in Ishim’s hand glints menacingly.

“If you've hurt her…”

“Then you'll do what, exactly? Should I be scared of you, Castiel? You, with your broken arm and inability to climb the stairs without help? Who can barely remember the man he married?” Ishim’s smile has grown nastily and his eyes are flashing with triumph. “Oh, but I bet you can remember me, can't you? I bet the details of  _our_ romance aren't hazy at all.” He leans in now, his lips brushing the shell of Castiel’s ear. “I bet you can remember every. Single. Thing. Can't you? That's because I'm the one you're meant to be with, Castiel. Not him. Not Dean, a man who got all the brawn but none of the brains. He's fun, certainly. Nice to look at, undoubtedly. I wouldn't mind a turn with those plush lips…” Ishim’s breath is wet on his skin and Castiel shudders, nausea and fury warring within him as he grips the counter top even tighter. “But he's nothing compared to me. _Nothing._ And deep in your heart you know this, Castiel. You're bound to me. It's time you stopped running.”

And maybe it's Ishim’s hand on his jaw, tilting his face towards him. Maybe it's the look in those cold eyes. Maybe it's the unspoken fate of his beloved best friend, his beautiful girl, his lifeline. Or maybe it's his words: _bound to me_. Castiel is bound to one person and one only: Dean. But strength rises within Castiel and he turns, shoving Ishim bodily away from him and the older man stumbles, the knife hitting the island with a clatter - but his attempt is in vain. He’s still weakened from the attack and his coordination is off. He doesn’t have the strength he usually does and it works against him. Ishim’s eyes harden and he reaches for Castiel before he can move away, gripping him tightly by the collar and shaking him, then he's being dragged across the room and slammed against the wall, the breath knocked out of him as his head spins. Ishim’s grip tightens at his throat, restricting his breathing, and the hand holding the knife comes up to press the blade into Castiel’s skin. A drop of blood beads at the tip and runs down his cheek, a sickening mockery of a tear.

“I should have done this years ago, when you were still trotting at my heels like a lap dog,” Ishim hisses, his breath thick with the smell of coffee and cigarettes, spittle landing on Castiel’s skin and turning his stomach. “When you were still worth having around. I should have ended you then, instead of having to stand back and watch you fall. I regret ever meeting you.”

“As do I!” Castiel chokes, fear of Ishim now overridden by thoughts of Dean, his Dean. He tries to push off the wall, to pull away, but Ishim has him held fast and his head is spinning. “You ruined my life!”

“I taught you a _lesson!_ ” The blade cuts his skin again easily, like a hot knife through butter, and Cas clenches his teeth against a grunt of pain. He won't give Ishim the satisfaction of knowing he's hurting him. “And it didn't work! So I tried again, and it still failed. You're untraceable, Castiel, and you refuse to listen to me. So what am I to do with you?” His voice has grown cold again, an icy purr, and it makes the hair at the nape of Cas’ neck stand on end. And for the first time that evening, the very real fear that Ishim is here to kill him begins to take hold.

 _Dean,_ He prays to the other man, hoping that some celestial miracle intervenes and his husband hears him. _Dean, if I never see you again, I'm sorry! I love you, and I'm so sorry. I never wanted any of this to happen. I'm sorry I ever doubted you. Help me, Dean, please. Please, come for me… Please…_

“What _am_ I to do with you?” Ishim repeats in a whisper, and he leans in close until his face is pushed into Castiel’s neck and he nuzzles there for a moment, scenting him, then his lips find Cas’ pulse point. That's it. Something inside Castiel snaps at the feeling of the touch of the man he loathes, the man who had left him scarred and stricken and alone, and his hands come up of their own accord to grip Ishim’s upper arms. Before the knife can cut in deeper, Castiel brings his knee up between Ishim’s legs and feels a thrill of triumph as the other man cries out in pain and falls away, cupping himself, the knife skittering off under a table.

Castiel turns and makes a run for it. It's his only chance and he knows it.

He almost makes it too, his hand reaching for the doorknob, but then something slams into the side of his head and he goes down, seeing stars as his vision blurs. His face meets the wooden floor of his own hallway and the last thing he sees before his eyes close is Ishim, bending down over him, pain and fury swirling in his eyes. But he's smiling…

*

Cas comes to in the passenger seat of a moving car. It's dark out and his hands are tied behind him; the motion of the vehicle makes his stomach swim nauseatingly and he twists his head to try and work out where he is and what's going on. His memory is failing him again. He can't quite push himself up into a sitting position with his arms pulled the way they are, and his broken elbow aches. His head is pounding and his temple is crusty with what could be blood and slowly his eyes roam slowly over his surroundings. In a car, must be night time… his eyes land on the driver and a low whine of distress leaves his lips. And it all comes screaming back to him in violent, rushing technicolor. The attack, the aftermath, the empty house following Dean’s arrest… how could he have been so stupid and gotten this all so horrifically wrong? How could he ever have thought Dean would harm him? Sweet, caring, wonderful Dean who loves him so much… Cas closes his eyes and a few tears leak out and track down his cheeks. Next to him, the driver turns his head and a mean smile touches his lips.

“Nice of you to rejoin the party, Castiel. For a moment there I thought I'd lost you already.” The smile is so familiar. The voice makes him sick. The thought of the man touching him…

He remembers.

He remembers Ishim trying to take his life.

It had all started so long ago. Before the wedding, the wedding he still doesn't remember. Why? Why does he remember the horrors of being assaulted so violently but can't recall what must surely have been the best day of his life? His mind is so cruel to him that way. The way it taunts him, remembering Ishim but not Dean. It had started when he had run into Ishim in a grocery store and had been left breathless and fearful in the wake of that encounter. Ishim had said he'd been visiting a friend, that he was living in Chicago and that running into Castiel had been accidental. The hand that lingered on Castiel’s arm had left chills in its wake and, in the safety of his bathroom at home, he had stared at his scars for the mirror for the longest time, remembering. Then it had started.

The messages had come to his old phone. The phone he had thrown in a drawer and forgotten about after their break-up, the phone that had been swept up in a pile of clothes and moved to the new house with Dean. After his run-in with Ishim in the grocery store he had searched feverishly for it with the intention of throwing it away. He never, ever should have turned it on, he knows that now. He knew it at the time and yet his finger found the power button, the charging cable found the wall socket, and then he was reading a long, convoluted message from his abusive ex which swayed between apologies and threats, and Castiel had hidden the phone again, afraid. Ishim’s hold, while not as strong as it had once been, was still tight around him and he felt his skin crawl and his chest tighten as he read and re-read the message in the nights to come. He didn't tell Dean. _Couldn't_ tell Dean. His fiancé already wanted the man’s head on a silver platter so he dreaded thinking about what Dean would do with such information as Ishim’s name and number.

He meant to throw it away. He did. But the messages kept coming, all of them going without any reply as Castiel held onto his hope that Ishim would get bored and move on. But then a threat came, unveiled and plain as day: _Don't marry Dean Winchester. I'll find you if you do._

That should have been enough. Should have been the push he needed to turn the phone in and confess to Dean that he’d been hiding it. He had said nothing to Ishim, sent him no details of his life, yet the man knew of his upcoming wedding so he had his proof that he was being watched. But indignant hatred had stalled his actions and he had kept it to himself, once again afraid of how it would affect things with Dean and, now, certain he could deal with Ishim himself. That night, lying alone in bed while Dean worked late, he had replied for the first time: _Stop contacting me._ Short and sweet, and upon receiving nothing in response he had deleted Ishim’s number, turned over in bed and heaved a sigh of relief as the phone fell silently to the floor beside him. But the morning after, the messages began in earnest. They swung between apologies, begging Castiel to call him, saying he wanted to talk. Then the threats came and those were the things that stayed Castiel’s hand and stopped him from turning his ex in to the cops. Because Ishim didn't just threaten Castiel. He threatened Dean, and in every second breath would accuse Dean of not giving Castiel the life he deserved. Dean was worthless, had anger issues, didn't earn enough money, never took Castiel anywhere or did anything with him. And with every message it became clearer that Ishim was watching him. So Castiel did the only thing he could think to do, his past as an abused boyfriend controlling his actions even out of Ishim’s grasp. He married Dean.

And the texts stopped. Until one night, out of the blue, he received a message that drew him from his bed and out into the night where he ultimately met his fate.

 _One last drink,_ the text had read. _Then I'll be out of your life forever. Refuse me and Dean will never come home to you again,_ it continued, and Castiel’s breath had frozen to ice in his lungs. _You'll have seen his face for the very last time._

The car jolts, hitting a pothole, and pain flares through Cas’ damaged arm. Ishim only smirks down at him, a vile expression that twists his features unpleasantly, and Castiel shivers. He can't reach the handle of the door without Ishim noticing, not that it would do him much good if he could. Tied like this he would hit the ground painfully and no doubt he wouldn't make it far before the other man caught up to him. The city lights have diminished now and he strains to see where they're going.

‘Always remember, Cas,’ Dean had joked with him over dinner once. ‘If you're ever kidnapped, try and map the route they take you. Remember the left turns, and the right. The hills, the roundabouts, the scenery. It's your best shot at getting home.’

Dean had grinned that night, had reached across the table and squeezed Cas’ hand tightly and reassured him that he would never have use for that tip anyway, that he would never be in harm’s way again. That Dean would always look after him. He closes his eyes against a fresh wave of tears, and remembers.

Frightened for Dean and desperate to protect him, Castiel had gone along to the bar alone, late at night, and had sat at a table with a drink until the hauntingly familiar voice had wrapped itself around him from behind. He hasn't noticed Ishim slip something into his whiskey. What he had noticed was the room beginning to sway and his words become difficult to string together. He had tried to pull away from Ishim, has tried desperately to get himself out of the bar, terror encircling his heart as he realised he had made a huge mistake coming here. That Ishim had no plans to talk, he just wanted to act. To hurt him. But he realised that too late, his naivety and innate desire to see the good in everyone clouding his judgement. Ishim had dragged him from the bar and shoved him unceremoniously down the side alley, and that's where it had all happened. That's when he thought his life was truly over, and at some moments of horrific clarity while Ishim was raping him he prayed for it all to be over. He remembers now, praying for Dean, calling for him before a hand clamped over his mouth. Trying to reach for his cell phone but watching it skitter away helplessly, smashed.

The rest he remembers all too well, right up to waking up in hospital to the face of a man he barely knew at the time. And barely knows now, but for one thing: he knows he loves Dean. Now that the pieces of that fateful night have fallen into place and the memories of Ishim’s deception and betrayal have come flooding back, he doesn't need to remember every moment of his life with Dean. He knows he needs him, and he knows that whatever history they share is good, it's happy. It's perfect.

He doesn't need to remember his husband to know him, he knows that now. Beautiful, sweet, loving Dean who did nothing but care for Castiel and try to help him. He sees it all so clearly now, it’s as though his vision has cleared and everything makes sense. Dean wasn't watching over him to track his every move, he was _worried_ about him. He kept so close because he was concerned and wanted his husband back. All he's ever done is love him. If Castiel’s hazy memories of holding Dean’s hand and cuddling up to him in bed are anything to go by then they shared a close, affectionate relationship. To go from that to nothing must have been unbearable for Dean and a low moan of distress leaves Castiel’s lips. He was just trying to get his husband back. And Castiel twisted everything, warped all of Dean’s good intentions into something dark and sinister. Ishim is right: how can Dean ever forgive him for this?

An even worse thought strikes him. What if Dean _does_ get jailed for this? For a crime he didn't commit? And what if Castiel isn't able to save him from that fate?

“Oh God,” he whispers, starting to shake with a cruel mixture of cold and distress. “Dean…”

Ishim is the darkness, everything that's wrong in the world, and Dean the light, and he despises himself for getting everything so wrong.

“Hush, Castiel. I don't want to hear his name from your lips ever again.” Ishim’s voice comes out as a low, gravelly snarl. He still seems so calm and that fact alone chills Castiel to the bone. “Dean is nothing to you. Less than nothing. I'm all you're ever going to need from now on, Castiel. My face is going to be the last thing you ever see.”

Tears blur his vision and he closes his eyes, overwhelmed with guilt, grief, and terror. He played right into Ishim’s hands, turning Dean in as a suspect. In his pocket, his phone bleeps quietly, low battery, and he fights off a wave of nausea as he tries to remember all the twists and turns Ishim is taking in the car so he knows how to get back from wherever they're going.

 _If_ he can get back from wherever they're going.

He has a sick, clawing feeling in his stomach that this time Ishim is going to make sure he doesn't walk away.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags again, folks ♥

Jimmy Novak hates flying. He doesn't hate it quite as much as Dean, who flatly refuses to get on a plane unless it's a life or death situation. But he really does dislike it. All the people crowded so close together and the smell of cleaning products and stale air, the crappy food and cheap wine, and the fact that he  _always_  picks up a cold… No, he isn't a fan. He's more familiar with chauffeur-driven cars and taxis, weaving their way through the bustling New York streets while he relaxes in comfort and sends emails, checks his stocks and shares, and plays Candy Crush. But needs must and this is definitely a need. 

He taps his manicured nails on the table to his left, smiling up at the pretty air steward as she refills his wine glass. As she walks away down the aisle he turns and unashamedly watches her go, her uniform clinging perfectly in all the right places, before turning back and sipping his drink. Thank God for first class, and for the flight having a spare seat. He's only had to wait a couple of hours at the airport, and he should touchdown a little before midnight. If he had to sit next to someone and make polite conversation though, for the entire flight, he'd go mad, he's sure. The last time he'd had to fly economy he got wedged in between a mother with a screaming baby and an older businessman wearing too much cheap aftershave who couldn't keep his hands to himself and kept hitting on Jimmy. His hand had found its way to his groin more than once, no matter how many times Jimmy shoved him off with hateful tears in his eyes. Eventually, furious and at the end of his patience, Jimmy had accidentally-on-purpose dumped his coffee in the man’s lap and they hadn't exchanged another word. From that day he swore economy flights were off the table for him and has never looked back. Cas had balked at the story and tried to insist Jimmy file a sexual harassment claim, but he had never done so. It felt a little like he'd brought it on himself by being chatty and approachable in the first place. Cas’ voice clangs in his head, berating him for victim blaming; shudders at the memory and sips his drink. 

He worried sick about Castiel. The plaintive, hopeless tone in his twin’s voice had been awful to hear and he had been out of his office and heading for his town car before ending the call, promising his brother he was heading straight to the airport. Cas has tried to say no, he was fine, but Jimmy had insisted. His twin needed him, he was going to go be with him no matter what Cas said. He hasn't brought a bag, but he can just wear Cas’ clothes and rock professor-librarian chic for a few days. He always thought those sweaters of Cas’ looked pretty comfy. 

Dean…  _Dean._  He's struggling to process it all. Dean, arrested for Castiel’s rape and for trying to kill him. Well, arrested for his suspected involvement. It makes him want to throw up in his wine glass. He runs a hand distractedly through his dark hair, messing it up even further, and stares at his reflection in the window. Coming to terms with what had happened to Cas had been bad enough - and he already felt burdened with guilt at having to leave his brother in a fragile state - but now learned that Dean potentially had some involvement is almost beyond comprehension. Jimmy doesn't exactly click with Dean; it isn't that he doesn't like him, they just don't share anything in common whatsoever. But to think him a killer? It's almost absurd. He shakes his head, and is suddenly startled by the reflection in the window seeing, just for second, Cas staring back at him. He leans in, peering at himself, using the pane as a mirror. He has shadows under his eyes and there’s a somewhat haunted look on his face. His lips are thin and his jaw tight. He looks upset, which fits. He rolls his shoulders, eases his head from side to side, and tries to force his body to relax, attempting to remember some of the breathing techniques his yoga teacher taught him. He only went to her class twice, not returning after they slept together and he never called her. 

The captain’s voice fills the cabin, telling him they have an hour left until they land and he shifts, anxious. Why don’t planes move faster? He drums his fingers again, finishing his wine and leaning back in his reclining seat, shutting his eyes. Sleep doesn’t come, but at least he doesn’t have to interact with anyone. Eventually, when the plane touches down and they disembark, he manages to dredge up a smile for the air stewards on his way out, but it vanishes from his lips the second his feet hit the tarmac. With no baggage to collect, he makes it through the airport and is soon hailing a taxi with a loud whistle and a raised hand. He garners a few surprised looks for his actions and shrugs them off as he gets into the cab. His New York habits aren’t always welcome in other cities.

“Cas’ place,” he says to the driver, absent-minded and tapping at his phone, sending his brother a text.

“No worries, cher. Does this ‘Cas’ have an address?” The woman is soft-spoken and her Cajun accent is soothing to his raw nerves. He sits back apologetically and gives her Cas’ address. Under any other circumstance he would be hitting on her or asking for her number, but he’s too preoccupied and doesn’t even bat an eye when she winks at him as he pays her and gets out.

He stretches, feeling the muscles in his spine protest and his neck pop, then turns to stare up at Cas’ house. The place is quiet and still when he walks up the front path. There are lights on low downstairs, and when he tries the door he shakes his head in despair. Cas shouldn't go leaving doors unlocked, not after everything. He knows Cas probably did it for him, so he could let himself in, but he still should know better. 

“Cas?” He calls softly, pushing the door closed behind him. The kitchen lights are on and so is the lamp in the living room, but the rest of the house seems shrouded in darkness. His brother must have gone to bed early, unable to stay awake to wait for him. That's fine, he’ll sort himself out then to crawl into bed with his twin and try to console him. He both is and isn't looking forward to that. He wants to see his brother, wants to hold him and comfort him and be there for him, but at the same time seeing Cas distressed once again is going to be unbearable. Shrugging off his jacket he tosses it over a kitchen chair, wondering if his brother has spare pyjamas he can borrow. He has nothing with him, and already he’s berating himself for not dashing home to grab a bag. Cas is already in bed, another hour or two wouldn’t have made much of a difference. He heads upstairs, knocking quietly on the bedroom door and calling his brother’s name out softly. No response. Cas must be out for the count. His stomach growls for attention, so he heads down to grab some snacks to bring up, and a glass of water for them both.

He makes his way around the kitchen, filling two glasses and leaving one on the counter whilst sipping from his own, walking slowly around Cas’ kitchen to stretch his legs, examining things as he goes. Cas and Dean’s kitchen has always been obsessively neat. At least, until Cas gets entrenched in his work and spreads books and paperwork everywhere. He smiles at the thought but then it fades slowly as anxiety and melancholy overwhelm  him. Will Cas ever be able to go back to work? Go back to doing what he loves? Will he ever play the piano again? He walks over to it and sits down, running a hand over the keys and pressing a couple down gently. The notes clash horribly and he tries a few more. They too sound awful, and he sits back, brooding. Cas has the talent, not him. He only hopes his brother can make it back to himself someday soon. Getting up, Jimmy plans to grab Cas’ drink and head upstairs but something stops him, something outside in the yard.  It’s the dog. That dog of Cas’, lying down outside facing down the garden. He frowns, trying to focus, seeing his own face reflected back at him in the glass as he gazes out at Ruby. Strange. Maybe Cas forgot to let her in and locked up before going to bed. He's been through hell and is in a real state following Dean’s arrest, so that could explain it. But his brother sleeps with Ruby on his bed, so that makes it even more peculiar than he's forgotten her. He reaches for the handle, surprised to find it unlocked, and yanks the door open. 

“Ruby!” He calls, quietly so he doesn't wake Cas. “Come on, time for bed!”

Nothing. The dog doesn't move. Not a flick of the tail, a twitch of ears, nothing. Jimmy scowls. Is she going deaf? She's not that old. He pads out into the yard, sipping his water, and tries again to coax Ruby inside. Still no response. 

“For god’s sake,” Jimmy mutters, approaching the dog’s side. He likes Ruby well enough, doesn't put her on a pedestal the way Cas does, but he doesn't want to be mooching about outside in the dark. He wants to check on Cas and go to bed, and  _why_ is the damn dog not listening to him? He bends down and places a hand on her shoulder to rouse her, frowning deeper still as his hand comes away sticky. “The hell?” 

He reaches over and flicks on the outside light then, as the whole yard is bathed in a soft white glow, freezes in shock. The glass slips from his hand and smashes, fragments spraying everywhere, but he barely notices. His gaze is fixed on Ruby. Ruby, lying motionless before him with blood soaking her thick coat, and the handle of a pocket knife protruding from her neck. Her eyes are glazed and milky, staring straight ahead of her, and the rise and fall of her rib cage is noticeably absent. Jimmy realises with a sickening shock that he's staring at the dead body of Cas’ best friend. That she's been killed in cold blood, and he also realises what his hand is now slick with. He staggers back and heads back into the house at a run, uncaring now about waking Cas and shouting at the top of his lungs for his brother. He climbs the stairs two at a time and shoves open the bedroom door: the bed is unmade and empty. Same with both guest rooms. Panic rising, he checks the bathroom too. 

“Cas! Cas, answer me! Cas, where are you?”

But silence is his only response. Chilled, frightened, barely holding in his terror he heads back to the living room, lit only by a small table lamp and casts about for any sign of his brother. Then something catches his eye. By the door, there's a smear of blood on the floor in a small arc. It’s off to the side near the wall and he wouldn’t have noticed it when walking in. But now, against the wooden floor and the star white of the door, it’s painfully obvious, screaming out at him, and his blood turns to ice in his veins. Utter terror like he’s never felt before seizes his entire body and for a second he can’t move. One word is going round and round in his mind on a continuous, panic-stricken loop:  _Cas, Cas, Cas, Cas…_

His phone is in his hand - still coloured with Ruby’s now dried blood - and he’s about to dial 911 when he stops, something catching his eye, as he desperately fights against hyperventilation. 911 will put him through to a dispatcher, a middle-man, and Jimmy Novak doesn’t do middle-men. He goes straight for the thing he needs. On the counter right next to him is a piece of paperwork from Dean’s precinct, he doesn’t know what it is and he doesn’t care. He cares about the number at the top. He dials with shaking hands, misdialling twice and cursing wildly as the phone rings once, twice…

“Who is this? Who am I talking to?” He barks, his voice two octaves higher with fear as his whole body is wracked with tremors. “Benny? Benny, Dean’s friend? Whoever you are, you have to help me! It’s Cas!”

*

Castiel wakes with a pounding head in the back of the car staring up at the stained roof. His arms are numb, still tied behind him, and he doesn't have the energy to try and sit up to relieve some of the pressure. It's dawn, the sky clear and the air cold and crisp, and his breath clouds in front of him. From what he can see through the windows opposite him, they're in a woodland. The trees are tall and golden-brown with the season, and it looks like the car has been parked up in a small clearing. Near the river, perhaps, and he stares transfixed into the distance for a moment, chilled by the thought of Ishim attempting to drown him or, worse, throwing his body into the water, never to be found. Dean will never get to say goodbye…

His breath stutters as he thinks of Dean. Thoughts of his husband were the only things that kept him from completely breaking down last night, as he attempted to be strong, to make Dean proud of the meagre fight he was putting up. Not much of a fight though, not really, and his eyes burn as he thinks back. 

Ishim assaulted him again last night. He tossed Cas into the backseat like a rag doll and lay on top of him, forcing hot kisses onto his skin and pushing Castiel’s t-shirt and sweater up so he could spill, slick and wet, onto his stomach. He had laughed afterwards, had rubbed his come into his skin and wiped it on Cas’ lips, then had climbed out of the car and slammed the door. Cas had been left alone with his guilt and his shame, unable to clean himself up beyond trying clumsily to wipe his mouth on the seat, and barely holding back tears. Ishim hadn't returned for a long time, and eventually the adrenaline brought about by shock and fear ebbed away, leaving Cas exhausted and falling fitfully into a light sleep, waking every so often with low cries, only to find himself still alone. Where Ishim has gone he had no idea, and he found he didn't much care. As long as he was alone, he was safe. It was Ishim’s return that he dreaded. 

Eventually, with a groan of pain as his bound arms protest, he manages to haul himself into a sitting position and leans against the seat, panting. His t-shirt and sweater are horribly stiff and crusty, and the smell of semen still lingers in the air, making him want to vomit. He feels as dirty and humiliated as he had done in the hospital, when the doctors tried to encourage him to talk about the rape, and he can still feel the phantom weight of Ishim’s body on top of him, making him flinch and squirm in distress. He turns to look out of the window and, just for a moment, his heart soars as the face of his brother stares back at him.  _Jimmy!_  But his elation fades as he realises he's staring into the blue eyes of his own reflection in the window pane, and a whine leaves him as he slumps back against the seats, dejected. Nobody is coming. Nobody knows he's even  _here_ , how could they? He either has to get out of this alone, or not at all. He blinks away a sudden rush of reactionary tears, tensing as he hears footsteps approaching the car. 

The door opens, his arm is grabbed and his shoulder scream in protest as he's yanked from the car and pushes away from it, stumbling and almost falling. As Ishim turns to shut the door, he realises that he has a chance. Likely his  _only_  chance to get away. So he turns and runs, awkwardly off-balance, and hears an enraged shout from behind him. 

He doesn't make it far. Ishim grabs him, they scuffle, then Ishim’s hand is in his hair and a foot comes up around his ankle, tripping him, and he goes down, his knee crunching painfully as he lands. Managing to right himself before he lands on his face, he comes his knees, Ishim is behind him, and all he can see is the dirt and the leaves on the ground below him. He’s about to try and get up again, pain lancing through his kneecap and bringing a cry of pain as it gives way beneath him, when the sound of a safety being snapped off a handgun just behind his head stills him completely. The breath leaves his lungs as it hits him that Ishim has him in the perfect position to fire a killing shot without them even making eye contact again. Ishim has him positioned perfectly for execution. His body freezes, his extremities go numb with shock, but his heart rate slows gradually. He waits, expecting fear to flood his veins but it never comes. Instead, a strange, all-encompassing calm surrounds him and he just stares, blinking at the ground and waiting. There’s only one way out of this, so all he can do is wait. Wait for his fate to come to pass, for Ishim to speak, for a bullet to end his life. 

“This is what you deserve, Castiel.” Ishim snarls softly, too close. The gun must only be inches from his head. “You’re just sad, and pathetically weak. It's my duty to deal with you, once and for all. This time, you won’t get up again.”

“Then do it.” His voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to him. It’s too calm, too restrained, too accepting. His hands ache from being bound for so long but beyond that he feels nothing at all. “Stop with the sermon and do it. End this, because if you don't…”

“You'll do what?” The barrel of the gun presses into his skull, forcing his head forward and his gaze to drop. “You'll do nothing, Castiel, as you always do. You just stand there and let it all happen, you do nothing to defend yourself, you do  _nothing._ Anyone can walk all over you, you're pathetic. A doormat. A disgrace. You should have died alone in that alley and saved me the trouble of going to all these lengths.

“I could have killed you in the house. Painted the walls with your blood. But this way? This way Dean will never know your fate, will never know what truly happened to you. Perhaps he’ll think you just left, unable to take being anywhere near the memories of him - such as they are. You'll just fade away, a speck in his memory, until he forgets you completely.” Cas’ eyes burn with tears. “And he will forget you, Castiel. He wants to, I can already tell. Wants to be apart from you since you're such an  _inconvenience._ Can't remember anything, can't have him near you, can't even  _walk_  straight or chop up a vegetable without help. Oh yes, Castiel, I know. I know everything. You're very easy to watch, and that little dog of yours soon became a good friend of mine once I bought her love and friendship with nothing but treats. She let me stand in your yard and watch you both for hours, didn't even bat an eyelid. Which is ironic, since your filthy yard has become her final resting place…”

“No…” Cas’ voice cracks at the confirmation.  _Ruby_. His girl. His best friend. 

“So I suppose the silver lining for you is that soon you'll be with her again. You and that filthy mutt will be reunited sooner than you think.”

“Then  _do it!”_ He can't help it; the words tear from his lips as he stares fixedly at the ground, panting now, ready for it all to be over. For the hell he's lived in since Ishim’s attack to come to an end. “Stop torturing me and do it! You're a monster!”

Silence follows, and he hears his own harsh breathing above the trickle of a nearby stream. The wind pokes through the trees, jostling the leaves and winding through his hair. 

“I'm no monster,” Ishim says softly. “I just see weakness and I act upon it. You drove me to this. You forced my hand.” He hears Ishim shift, adjusting his stance, and before the words come he already knows. It's over. This is it. “Goodbye, Castiel.”

His eyes close, and he readies himself for… he doesn't know what. Will he feel it? Have a chance to even hear the gun going off? Dean’s face flashes before him, smiling at him, whispering that he loves him, and a single tear makes its way down Castiel’s cold cheek.  If he were to cry, it would be for Dean and the life they've lost. For Jimmy, for the brother he will never get to hold again. And for Ruby, his faithful companion until her dying breath. He wishes he could see Dean again, just one last time, and for a split second he sees him, standing opposite him at an alter flanked by grinning men in smart suits, shirt open-collar and blonde hair shining in the sunlight, eyes a little glassy with tears, smiling, so obviously in love…

_Crack!_

*

Castiel’s entire body jolts in shock, bracing for the impact of the bullet and for the darkness that will surely follow. 

But it never comes. In front of him, a few feet away, there are footsteps and voices coming through the trees - the sudden sound he'd heard, the sound his fractured mind had interpreted as a gun shot, had been a boot breaking a twig and his gaze blurs as someone comes into view just ahead of him. The person is tall, strongly built, dark-clothes, and has his arms raised and is pointing something at them both, and his heart spasms in recognition. It can't be. It just… It  _can't_ be. He's hallucinating. In these last few seconds before death take him, surely he's imagining things… He blinks, trying to clear his fuzzy vision, but fails.  Behind him, Ishim’s sharp intake of breath signals to Castiel that he's not the only one shocked by the arrival of this person and their comrade. 

He recognises Benny Lafitte first, standing off to the right, handgun trained on Ishim and a grim expression marring his handsome face. Benny’s eyes flick down to meet Cas’ and he nods jerkily, an attempt at reassurance. Cas shakes his head in confusion, heart rate climbing and beating frantically against his ribs, finally clearing the cobwebs borne of shock and resignation, and gazes up at the man in front of him, the man he knows all too well and thought he would never see again. The sandy blonde hair, defined muscles and strong stance, and the perfect green eyes. Green eyes which are now fixed on Ishim standing behind Cas, and are flashing with fury. There's a weapon in his hands, pointing over Castiel’s shoulder, and he hardly dares to draw breath. There's no way…  _How?_

Dean…

It's Benny who speaks, but Castiel’s eyes are locked on his husband as a dull, feeble flicker of hope ignites in his chest. 

“Put the gun down, Ishim, and step away from him. It's over.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience with this story, everyone! We're almost at the conclusion, only three chapters left to go - but hopefully they will be worth the wait! ♥ I'm hoping to get this wrapped up by the end of October so that I can focus on my NaNo fic, and on updating Sugar Me Sweet. Love xo

“Put the gun down, Ishim, and step away from him. It's over.”

Benny snaps the safety off his weapon and takes another step forward. Dean, not trusting himself to speak, remains silent and his eyes flick between his husband, bound and kneeling at his feet, and the man he wants to murder in cold blood standing only feet away. His heart beats a thrilling tattoo against his ribs as he realises that had they been thirty seconds later, Cas would be dead and he would be chasing down his murderer. It chills him to even imagine it. Ishim’s eyes are flashing dangerously as he stares, open-mouthed, at Dean and Benny, clearly pole-axed at being found.

“How did you…” Ishim starts, then glances down at Cas, still kneeling at his feet with his head bowed now. “What are you…”

Overwhelmed by rage and shock, he doesn't seem able to form complete sentences. And that's fine with Dean. He doesn't need a sermon. He needs to take the weapon from Ishim, get Cas to safety, then see the man is out behind bars for the rest of his life, along with clearing his own name at some point during the mix. He knows, however, that Ishim is unlikely to come quietly or relinquish his hold over Cas without a fight.

“Well, I guess you got lucky then, Castiel.” Ishim kicks Cas in the back and Dean almost discharges his weapon in fury. “Lucky your knight in shining armour is here to save you. Lucky Dean managed to find you _just_ in the nick of time.” His voice drops with disdain and sarcasm.

“Lucky Dean has friends who are happy to stage a jailbreak,” Benny growls, and Ishim’s face clears as comprehension falls - then darkens menacingly. “I said, put the gun down and step back. Now. We're done talking.”

“Clever. Very clever. So you get to play the hero, Winchester, well done.” Ishim sneers at him nastily and Dean’s blood boils. “And just in time too, just like a fairytale. Saving the princess from the dragon.”

“Benny,” Castiel’s pained voice, an octave higher than normal, cuts Ishim off. “It wasn't Dean, you have to believe me. You have to make them understand. It wasn't him, it _wasn't…”_

 _“Shut up,”_ Ishim kicks Cas again who breaks off with a pained gasp, only to continue rapidly as though he knows his time is running out.

“No, Benny, you _have_ to make it right. If I…. if I can't then you have to, tell them all I was wrong, I fucked up, Dean’s innocent…”

“I know, cher.” Benny nods, reassuring. “I know. And you can tell ‘em all yourself, too. It's alright.”

“Is it?” Ishim’s eyebrows lift. “Do my eyes deceive me? Is Castiel not at my feet about to meet his end?”

“No,” Dean growls, his grip tightening on his weapon. “He isn't, because you're going to do as we damn well ask and get the fuck away from him before I _end you.”_

 _“_ I bet you'd love to do that, wouldn't you Dean?” There's a wild, unhinged look seeping into Ishim’s darkened eyes. His gaze flits from Dean to Castiel, then back up. “Shoot me. Kill me. Make me pay for what I did. For what he _deserved_ -”

“I said, back the fuck up and drop the gun.” Dean steadies his hands which have fallen victim to a low tremor. He needs to focus, need to keep his head. Castiel is on the ground and vulnerable, and he needs this over. His heart is racing and there's sweat running down his spine. “ _Now_!”

“I could,” Ishim says slowly, contemplatively, as though he's actually considering doing it. “You could have your sweet little husband back and live out your dream life together. The perfect couple, am I right?” The gun levels again at the back of Castiel’s head, having dropped an inch while Ishim was speaking. “Or I could end this the way I should have done weeks ago. _Years_ ago. I never should have let you leave me, Castiel, never. You're mine.”

“He isn't.” Dean isn't sure how he keeps his voice so steady. “He was never yours. He never will be.”

“You _stole_ him from me, you mean.” Ishim snarls wildly. It's inaccurate but Dean isn't going to play into the wild ramblings of a madman. This has gone on too long already. “But it really only comes down to one thing, doesn't it Dean?” There's a sinister note to Ishim’s voice now, and an unpleasant smile curls his lip. “Who can pull the trigger first?” His smile widens as Dean clenches his teeth. “Me or you?”

Time seems to stand still. The wind blowing the leaves around their feet seems to halt, the river falls silent, Benny’s breathing fades away. It's just Dean, Cas, and Ishim.

Cas, bound on his knees, eyes wide and full of tears but also reflecting a hateful _acceptance_ of his fate as he stares up, so innocent yet so tainted and broken. There's reassurance in those blue eyes too, and Dean despises it. He wants to crash to his knees and grab Cas, shake the life back into him, scream at him that this isn't how it ends, that he can't just let this happen and accept it all. It isn't right. He doesn't deserve this, in no way deserves to die like this, out in the woods with Dean only an arm’s length away from him.

Ishim, the gun levelled at the back of Castiel’s skull, ready to do it. Ready to end his life on a whim, the jilted ex-lover who never could relinquish his hold over his victim. The man who never could let go. Who would likely take Cas with him to the end if he could. Ishim deserves jail. He deserves to be tried in court for his actions, deserves to be locked away for life. But there isn't time. There's only Dean, and Cas, and Ishim, and the weight of the weapon in his hands.

His gaze drops to his husband and their eyes meet. And in that moment, Dean promises him silently that it won't be for the last time.

The muscles in Ishim’s wrists flex - and Dean fires. Once, a single shot, and it's done. Cas freezes, every muscle in his body visibly tensing as his eyes go wide, and then Dean’s gun is falling from his hand as he covers the gap between them, falling to his knees and wrapping his arms tightly, so tightly around his husband. Ishim lies a short distance away, and Dean rests his chin on Cas’ shoulder, one hand on the back of his head and holding his face against his chest so he doesn't see, and waits as Benny kicks the weapon aside and kneels down to check for a pulse. Already Dean knows there won't be one. A head shot at close range is a killer, and his aim was true. Benny looks up, his expression grim, and shakes his head minutely. Dean let's put a breath he didn't know he was holding as Cas presses into him, and just grips on tighter.

They kneel together on the dirty ground as Benny unties Cas, then they're hugging properly and Cas is crying, sobbing hard, clinging onto Dean like he doesn't dare let go, and Dean just holds him in silence. It's over. He can't quite let it sink in. Ishim lies dead, just a few feet away, and Cas is finally safe. He rubs the back of Castiel’s neck, finding his voice somehow and whispering soothing words into his hair. Cas’ fingers are digging painfully into his arms but he doesn't care. He wants the pain, wants to feel Cas and know he's there, that he's alive and safe in his arms. Cas’ clothing at the front feels strange, stiff, and he smells like something Dean can't even think about. He rests his chin on Castiel’s head and hugs him so tightly that a low hiccough makes him release his hold enough for Cas to breathe.

“I'm sorry!” Cas cries, his voice muffled against Dean’s chest. He's still on his knees, slumped sideways in Dean’s arms, and is shaking so much there's no way he can stand yet. “I'm so fucking _sorry,_ Dean! This is all… It’s all _my_ _fault_!”

Sobs overtake him and his words fail; Dean holds him close, holds one hand to the back of Cas’ head while the other encircles his waist, and rocks him gently, his own eyes burning.

“None of this is you, baby,” he whispers through numb lips. “None of it.”

“I called them!” Cas tries to pull away and sit up but is held fast by Dean. “I told them that you… I told them I thought you…”

“It's OK, Cas. It's alright. It's all OK.” It isn't. The adrenaline coursing through Dean’s veins is running thin, and the old wounds of betrayal are still there, but in this moment his husband needs him. They can work it all out later. “It isn't your fault, none of this is. I love you, I'll always love you.”

Cas slumps against him, breathing hard through his mouth, and they sit together in silence as Benny stands guard over them. In the distance, red and blue lights approach accompanied by the wail of a siren. They had called it in on their way, and now they'll have to face the consequences of what they've done. Of Benny breaking him out of the jail cell, and of Dean using the precinct computers to hack Cas’ cell phone and trace his location. Combined with him stealing a cop car while he was meant to be locked up… But it doesn't matter now. He’ll face whatever music he has to. Cas is safe.

As Harvelle, Stein, and two other officers approach with their weapons drawn, Dean just kneels at his husband’s side and holds him, unable to do anything else.

*

Jimmy had been nigh on inconsolable. The doctors in the emergency room had tried to hold him back and to stop him launching himself on a tearful, shocked, and injured Cas but their efforts had been in vain. Jimmy had all but leapt on his brother, wrapping him in his arms and hugging him so tightly that Cas struggles to breathe, then had cupped his face in his hands and demanded that he never do anything to worry Jimmy like that ever again. After an emotional reunion and multiple promises from both of them that nothing like this would ever occur again, Jimmy stepped back to allow them to check out Cas’ injured knee, all the while clutching his brother’s hand tightly in his own. He had ignored Castiel’s muted protests and had helped him strip off his sweater and jeans without saying a word. But his sickened expression conveyed absolutely everything. Castiel had insisted on privacy after that as he wiped himself down in the bathroom, holding onto the sink with shaking hands while balancing awkwardly on one leg, but had allowed Jimmy to help him back to bed afterwards.

Sam was in the waiting room, making multiple phone calls while all this was going on and hovering like a concerned mother hen. He had arrived, white-faced and appalled, to the hospital and hugged Cas like he never wanted to let go.

“Where's Dean?” He had asked, holding one of Cas’ hands in his own and gazing imploringly at him, once he'd established that Cas was OK aside from an injured knee.

“I don't know…” Cas could barely meet his eyes. “They took him away. They took him and Benny. Sam,” his voice cracks as he looks up at his brother-in-law. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't believe I ever thought that Dean-”

“Don't.” Sam squeezes his hand. “You weren't in the right frame of mind, Cas. Dean will forgive you. We all forgive you.”

“But how can he?” Cas pressed on, tears threatening. “I thought him capable of the most awful, the most horrendous thing. How can he ever forgive that?”

“You know Dean.” Sam had perched on the edge of the bed and patted Castiel's arm. “He doesn't hold grudges. Once this is all straightened out, it will be in the past and the pair of you can move on and heal, together.”

“What if he never trusts me again?” Cas speaks to the sheets, unable to meet Sam’s frown. “ _I_ could never trust me again.”

“Well, that's why Dean is such a good guy. He gives second chances. Now all we need to do is get him outta there and get him back to you. Worry about the rest later, alright?”

An hour later and Dean and Benny are still nowhere to be seen, and the knot of worry in Cas’ stomach is turning painful. As he lies back against the too-familiar hospital bedding, he feels a swell of fear once more. What if Dean isn't released? What if nobody believed him and Benny? What if nobody believed _him_ , thought him unstable or that he was covering up? What on earth would happen then? The cops he had spoken briefly to, amid frantic calls for Dean as he was herded into a squad car, had shushed him as he tried to explain it all and had told him to give his statement later. But surely it's later now, and nobody is here. His knee is strapped up and he's been given plenty of painkillers, and is now waiting for a doctor to discharge him but he isn't sure he wants to leave. Home isn't a happy or safe place for him at the moment. It's where Ishim violated his privacy and took him captive, its where he betrayed Dean’s trust, and it's where his dog…

He turns his head away as Jimmy comes back, tears seeping between his lashes, and his brother is at his side in a heartbeat.

“Cas? What is it, are you in pain?”

“No.” He shakes his head, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. His voice is strained and tearful but he's too exhausted to care how he sounds. “Ruby. I… I…”

“Oh, Cassie.” Jimmy hops up to sit on the bed next to his twin, wrapping an arm around him and evidently on the verge of tears himself. “I'm so sorry. She was a great dog.”

“She was my best friend,” Cas says, in a very small voice, leaning into his brother. It's almost impossible to believe she's gone. It feels like she's just waiting for him at home, waiting for him to walk in and giver her a liver snap and fuss all over her. “I hope she knew I loved her.”

“Of course she did. She knew every day.” Jimmy squeezes his shoulders. “Doc says you can get out of here now. Need a hand getting dressed? I've got some jeans and a cardigan…”

“Yeah,” Cas nods miserably and allows his brother to help him, wincing as his busted knee is jarred. “But Jim, where are we going? I don't think I can go home. Not right now. Should we… Dean…?”

He flushes and looks down at his feet as Jimmy hands him his socks, embarrassed at his own weakness. But his worries are short-lived as Jimmy lets out a sigh and says, “Cassie. I'd never take you back home tonight. And we aren't going to the station, Sam is down there and it's all in hand, I'm sure. You need a break, I've sorted everything. We're in a hotel down the road, penthouse suite. You need to rest and be looked after. We can worry about going home tomorrow, or even the day after that. Don't even think about it right now.”

Overwhelmed by his twin’s thoughtfulness, Cas just nods mutely and allows Jimmy to support him as they leave the hospital a little while later, since he’s unsteady on his crutches and flatly refused a wheelchair. It takes a short while to get to the hotel in early-evening rush hour, which Cas cringes at as he realises most of his day has been spent in the hospital, but it's worth the journey in the end. The staff are welcoming, subtle, and polite as they check them in and assure Jimmy that if they need anything to just call down. They even have their own private elevator, and Cas saga against the wall with a hand over his eyes, grateful for the privacy. The penthouse is roomy and luxurious, has Jimmy Novak written all over it, and when Cas crawls dejectedly onto the bed it feels like he's lying down on fluffy clouds. Later, when Jimmy curls up behind him and holds him as he gives in to his emotions and can't fight the tears, all he wants is Dean. He rouses just enough for Jimmy to help him change into loose sweats, which he must have gone out to grab from Cas’ home at some point during the day, them he curls up in misery once more with only his twin’s murmurs of comfort to keep him distracted.

But the evening passes and Dean doesn't come. 1am comes around and it's still just the two of them. Jimmy is snoring quietly at Cas’ side, in only his boxer-briefs and a t-shirt, and the bedroom is too still and too quiet. Cas can't sleep, hasn't even tried. Each and every tiny noise startles him. Jimmy is breathing too loudly. He's too close, but not close enough. Cas’ skin is slick with cold sweat and he can't get comfortable beneath the sheets. Every time his eyes close he sees horrible things, memories he wants to learn to forget. Glimpses of Dean firing his gun, a glance over at Ishim’s body as he was helped away to a squad car and to safety, Ishim’s hands on him and the taste of his semen… cringing and sickened, Cas extricates himself from beneath his brother’s arm and, barely managing with his knee so sore, he makes his way painfully to the gold and cream living room, which is currently bathed in cool darkness. He collapses onto the sofa and props his leg up on the coffee table, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. He can't take much more. He thought it would get better once Jimmy got him back here, but it's worse. His mind won't shut off, and he hears the gunshot over and over again. Ishim’s words, _goodbye Castiel,_ wrap themselves around him. Dean being cuffed and placed in a squad car and taken away before Castiel’s eyes. Benny receiving the same treatment. Jimmy’s frantic wail at the hospital when he first laid eyes on his twin. It's all too much.

He doesn't know how long he sits there for. The sky outside the window begins to lighten slowly as his eyes grow heavy, but he doesn't dare attempt sleep. There's a click of a door behind him, which causes his hair to stand on end and he hisses as his body jerks, a visceral reaction to the sudden noise and he freezes. It must be Jimmy, passing through from the bedroom. The hotel is secure, he's safe, he's _fine…_

“Cas?”

“Mmm?” He inclines his head towards the voice, unable to dredge up any guilt at waking his brother. He doesn't have the energy; any that he does have he's using to choke down the feelings of panic at being disturbed. But the person who sits down next to him isn't Jimmy; it's Dean, and Cas’ eyes open immediately at the familiar feeling and scent of his husband by his side. It's _Dean_ , Dean is here with him, safe and familiar and secure, and a hurt little noise escapes Cas as he reaches for him. A strong arm wraps around his shoulder then he's pulled into Dean’s body and a warm throw rug draped over him. A kiss touches his temple and he gazes up, exhausted, eyes red-rimmed and gritty.

“You OK?” Dean whispers, looking down at Cas with a low tenderness in his eyes. “Sorry I took so long.”

“How did you…?” Cas breaks off as Dean shakes his head.

“Tomorrow. I'll explain it all tomorrow. Sammy had a lot to do with it, freakin’ superstar that kid. You need to rest, Cas, and you're freezing. Let me get you to bed?”

“Jimmy’s asleep in it.” He feels warmer already, nuzzling in to Dean’s side and inhaling the scent of his musky sweat, ingrained into his skin from a few days of not showering.

“Want me to shift him? Is there another bedroom?”

“Yes. But let’s just stay here…”

He trails off, unable to talk any more. Dean’s arm is warm and safe around him and, somehow, it helps him relax and ease towards sleep. It's a vertigo-inducing juxtaposition, considering how afraid Cas has been just hours earlier, but he goes with it, unable to overanalyse. They have so much to talk about and get through, and he knows tomorrow will be awful on so many levels, but right now his husband is right. He needs to rest, they both do. He’ll make this right, somehow. He’ll prove to Dean that they can be whole again, and that this doesn't define them. He doesn't know how, but he knows he can do it.

His thoughts slow and eventually he drifts off into dreamland in Dean’s arms, and that's how Jimmy finds them the next morning when he wanders out in his underwear, adjusting himself and yawning. They're wrapped around each other, sleeping peacefully in each other's arms.


	15. Chapter 15

Things aren't good between them. Cas is trying, it's obvious, but the knot of hurt and betrayal in Dean’s chest won't let anything pass. They eat breakfast and dinner together over strained conversation, sit in tense silence in the living room while Castiel pretends to read and Dean pretends to watch TV, and at night they sleep in separate rooms. Cas has apologised in every possible way Dean can think of. He's said it to his face, has written a letter and left it on the counter next to Dean’s favourite mug, has had a cookie bouquet delivered (which was greedily devoured by Dean, naturally), but it hasn't really helped. A week after it all happened, Dean still feels wronged and carries a heavy burden of guilt about it all, and combined with the hollow emptiness in his chest he's feeling constantly unwell. Two weeks after, and he feels worse, not better. Time is healing nothing. Cas is the one all the trauma happened to. Cas was the one attacked by his ex, who had his dog murdered, who is still suffering the physical and mental effects. Why should _he_ be the one feeling wrong-footed? He should be focusing entirely on Cas, right? What kind of crappy husband is he?

But at night, when he lies awake and stares at the ceiling, he knows why. It isn't just the fact that he was interrogated for attempting to murder his husband. It isn't that it was his own colleagues who questioned him and detained him. And it isn't the fact that Cas went to the cops behind his back. It's the fact that deep down on a visceral level, Cas thought him capable of such an act. While the rational part of him argues that Cas wasn't in his right mind and was suffering badly, another more petulant and hurt part is screaming that he could never do that to anyone. He could never think something so awful of his loved ones, not in a million years. But then again, he's never had his trust betrayed by someone supposed to love him, has he? Not to the extent Cas has, not to leave mental and physical scars. That has to have something to do with it, he thinks, turning over to lie on his stomach. But it doesn't soothe the sting of being the person Cas thought culpable, no matter that it was so far from the truth it was staggering.

He thinks back to everything he’s done over the last few weeks, every possible little thing that must have screamed out to Cas that he wasn't to be trusted. Was it the way he looked at him? Touched him? Spoke to him? What exactly _was_ it that screamed violent predator? He lets his breath out through his teeth in a sigh. Maybe none of it, maybe all of it. He probably won't ever know because it doesn't seem like Cas knows exactly. It's all come out, the secret phone that he was hiding, the discussions with the neurosurgeon, all of it. And while he can understand everything objectively, he still feels wounded and betrayed by Castiel’s actions. And, of course, the actions of the team he's worked with for so long.

He's off on leave right now, indefinitely. It was a requirement initially, while all the paperwork was sorted out, but now the extended leave of absence is something he's negotiated with Harvelle, after telling her he wasn't ready to come back. And he isn't. He can't go back there yet, to seeing his team every day and knowing what they all thought of him, knowing that that Stein interrogated him while Harvelle and god knows who else stood behind the glass and watched. Knowing that asking for a lawyer made him look like he had done it all. He just can't, he's too humiliated and he doesn't know if he will ever be able to return to the job he loves. How could he ever trust any of them again? And if they were quick to judge him guilty, how can they trust him? It's all a goddamn mess.

Benny doesn't work for the division any more, which is yet another thing for Dean to feel sick with guilt about. His friend has reassured him countless times over the phone and over melancholy beers at the local bar that he's fine with it and that he wanted to take some time at home to spend with his wife anyway. Andrea is pregnant again and he's happy being with her and helping out, and while Dean buys it he still maintains that Benny should never have taken the fall for breaking him out to save Cas. He's feeling so low about it all that Benny resorted to talking to Sam, who tried every trick in the book to cheer Dean up. It worked, but only for a short time. Dean honestly doesn't know what he would have done without his brother over the last few weeks. Sam has been his rock, has been his shoulder to cry on when he's wound up on his couch or on the end of the phone in the middle of the night, and he's also been a sort of go-between for him and Cas. While he's glad Cas has the support of both of their brothers, he still feels a sting of jealousy whenever Sam picks up the phone to a distraught Cas after Dean turns up at his house without saying where he's going. Doing that isn't fair, but Dean isn't really able to function properly yet. His ducks aren't in a row. Dean is depressed, he knows he is. And it seems like he has a long, dark tunnel to go down before reaching resolution.

*

They have a date night. It's Jimmy’s suggestion, backed by Sam, and they both agree to it very hesitantly. They can manage conversations but the silences are heavy and loud and the idea of it all makes Dean feel all squirmy inside. But nonetheless, he dressed up nicely in his smartest jeans, a shirt and his leather, and waits awkwardly for Cas in the hallway.

“I've booked you a great place!” Jimmy sits up on the couch, his tousled dark head grinning at Dean who startles, not realising he was there, and the temptation to roll his eyes is just too much. The precocious Novak twin has descended on them for a weekend, in search of an apartment. He's moving to Kansas City to head up a sub-division of his team and Dean had grinned brittlely at the enamoured suggestion that they should double-date sometime when Jimmy finds a girl he likes. Single-dates feel like summiting Everest right now, the very last thing he wants is Jimmy thrown into the mix. “That place down on Third Street, Cas loves the Korean Tacos. And I know you'll eat anything with meat in, so you should be golden.”

Dean knows the place. Cas has wanted to go with him for ages but they never got around to it. Now he feels bad for not thinking of it himself; he had planned to drive downtown and find somewhere. But before he can respond to Jimmy, Cas appears on the stairs and Dean finds himself gravitating towards him without conscious thought. Cas looks great. He's in a dark blue shirt that seems to make his eyes sparkle, fitted black jeans, and has a knitted scarf slung around his neck. He's got his jacket over one arm and is gripping the stair rail tight with the other, his eyes flicking up to meet Dean’s then down to the next step, clearly nervous. He still hasn't regained his full mobility and watching him take it slow is like salt in a self-inflicted wound to Dean. He's being so selfish, acting so cool towards his husband and, berating himself, he hurries forward and offers Cas a hand as he reaches the last two steps.

Cas’ smile is shy as he takes it, and something sparks between them as their skin touches. Dean knows he isn't the only one who feels it, and as Cas reaches the bottom of the stairs Dean forgets to step back to give him room, so they wind up very close together and looking straight into each other’s eyes. Neither lets go of the other’s hand.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says softly, and the spell doesn't so much break as drifts away and he steps back, awkward, and aware of Jimmy watching them from the couch.

“Yeah. Hey, Cas. You look nice.”

“So do you. Where are we going?”

“Third Street.” He doesn't elaborate, but by the way his eyes light up Cas knows exactly where they're going. He doesn't mention that Jimmy booked it, and is thankful that the older twin doesn't pipe up to reveal it either. “Shall we, um,” He gestures towards the door and Cas nods, following him out and into the cold, crisp evening.

“Have fun, you two!” Jimmy shouts from the couch, starting to flip channels, and Cas does roll his eyes at him, but it's with an affection Dean hasn't quite mastered yet.

“Thanks, Jim. Don't wait up.”

The door closes on Jimmy’s reply, and Dean and Cas walk together to the Impala in silence. Is it an awkward silence, or companionable? Is Cas relaxed or is he freaking out? Dean’s brain is working overtime with worry, and his palms are sweaty as he reaches over and opens the door for Cas who smiles at him in surprise. The drive is quiet too, Dean letting Cas choose the music and smiling to himself when Zeppelin fills the air. Cas hates Led Zeppelin, so it's a testimony to the effort he's putting in. Dean’s hand slips on the steering wheel and he quietly curses himself. He hasn't been this nervous taking Cas out in years. And in spite of his reluctance to go along by anything spearheaded by Jimmy Novak, he wants this to go well. He hopes it will be a turning point for them, and that it's exactly what they need.

He holds the door for Cas as they go into the restaurant, hangs both their coats up, and orders for them. When he hands their server the menus back he catches Cas smiling tentatively at him, then looking quickly down at his hands when he realises he's been caught. He manages to return it, a little tightly, and after a tense silence Cas starts up a conversation about Sam’s current case and then, somehow, they don't stop talking.

They smile, too. And even laugh. The evening passes in a blink of an eye and they have _fun._ Dean’s anxiety fades throughout the evening, vanishing entirely as Cas pushing his dessert plate away with a satisfied little moan, his cheeks flushed and his eyes sparkling. Dean pays, although Cas puts up a valiant attempt to split the bill, then they walk back to the car hand-in-hand. It almost feels like normal, or like one of their early dates when they were just getting to know each other. The drive home is filled with talking, Cas smiling and Dean sneaking glances at him from the corner of his eye. It's like they're a brand, fresh new couple all over again.

And that feeling lasts right up until they're back home, upstairs, and saying goodnight.

“I could…” Cas gestures to the bed through the open door. “Sleep with you? Tonight? If you want?”

There’s hope in his eyes and in his voice, hope that Dean almost can’t bear to crush. It would be so easy to say yes, _so_ easy. But a knot has formed in his stomach at the idea of being more intimate with Cas even in an innocent way, and it forces his decision. As much as it pains him to do so, he shakes his head and watches the light die in Castiel’s face and disappointment clouds in.

“I can’t. Not yet. Sorry, Cas. I just need a little longer. OK?”

It’s not OK; nothing is. But Cas vanishes to the spare room as always and Dean is left to close the door and sink down onto the bed alone, feeling hollow and self-loathing and wracked with guilt. They've had such a good night. He should have just said yes and let Cas sleep in their bed with him again. Why didn't he? But his pride - and his fear of rejection - stop him from following Cas and correcting himself, so he lies in the dark alone, feeling guiltier than ever. Especially when he gets up an hour later to go to the bathroom and swears he hears Cas hurriedly muffling a sob. His hand comes to touch the doorknob then, out of cowardice, he lets it drop again and carries on walking.

*

He's woken one night, three weeks after Ishim’s death, to a low melody coming from the living room downstairs. Calming his breathing, as it so often leaves him gasping when he wakes in the night to a noise he wasn't anticipating, he pads down the hallway and stops halfway down the stairs, watching in awed silence.

Cas is sitting in almost total darkness at the piano, one hand on the keys and moving over them with such gentleness that it's a wonder any sound is coming out at all. And it sounds so sweetly beautiful that Dean’s breath hitches in his throat. Cas is playing. It's one-handed, a little slower and off-beat than his usual standard, but those facts are irrelevant. Cas is _playing_. Loathe to intrude by making his presence known, Dean sits down quietly on the top step, hugging his knees to his chest and watches through the banister rails, enraptured. It's part of a piece he vaguely recognises and sounds incomplete played with only one hand, but it still remains the most beautiful sound he's heard in months. Cas looks calm but focused, his shoulders relaxed and his gaze on the keys, eyes half-closed and it comes to Dean that he's playing from memory. There isn't any music in front of him - the _Adele_ book is closed and sitting on a side table. Cas remembers this piece.

The music ends then, after a few seconds hesitation, Cas starts playing another. This time, he tentatively uses his other hand as well to try slow, gentle chords and Dean relaxes as the music washes over him, his chin coming to rest on his knees and his eyes closing. Cas used to play this all the time, this low lilting melody that always sounded just a little bit haunting. This was how they used to be. Dean waking in the night to Cas playing, sitting listening hidden in the shadows. A chord rings flat and he hears Cas curse, and the magic is broken. Feeling weirdly guilty for intruding on what is apparently a private moment for his husband, he pads back to bed but leaves the door ajar so he can still hear, very faintly, as Cas continues to play.

The next morning, over breakfast and after another night of tossing and turning, Dean slides a glass of juice across to Cas and says, gruffly, “I heard you playing last night.”

“You did?” Cas’ head jerks up and his brows raise. “Really?” There's a colour to his cheeks and a glimmer in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he swallows another mouthful of Frosted Flakes. “You were good, Cas. Really good.”

“It wasn't great,” Cas shrugs awkwardly, a hint of a proud smile playing at his lips. “Out of time and plenty of errors. But I did it. It was good. Better.”

And he smiles up at Dean who all of a sudden just can't return it. There's a throb of something that feels awfully like jealousy in his chest and he swallows it down viciously. What kind of awful person is he to be jealous of Cas getting some of his coordination back? Jealous of him recovering? Is that even it? Or is he just angry with himself not being a part of that recovery because he's too mulish and pig-headed to allow it? He pushes away from the table and scoops up his cereal bowl with a clatter, furious with himself and feeling so confused that he can't think straight.

“Well, at least _something_ is getting better,” he snaps, too harshly, then turns away from the shocked, pained expression on Cas’ face and locks himself in his room with his guilt for the rest of the morning.

*

Another week passes and Dean begins to wonder if they'll ever be alright. Jimmy is long gone, Sam is travelling with work, Benny is with Andrea every evening as she struggles with the pregnancy, so Dean and Cas have only each other to keep themselves company. They go on another couple of dates and things seem easier, but every night when Cas turns away to go to the spare room an ache inside of Dean opens up. He wants to take Cas’ hand and pull him towards the bed to lie down with him and just be together all night, but there's something between them that prevents him from doing so. They hold hands on their dates but they haven't kissed, although Cas has tilted his head once or twice hopefully. It's Dean who just can't.

Then something happens and everything changes.

It's well after midnight and Dean is roused from a fitful sleep by a sound at the door. It takes him a second to wake up properly, but when he does he realises it was Cas calling his name that woke him.

His husband stands silhouetted in the doorway and Dean has to blink a few times before he can focus properly on him. He leans over and turns on the lamp, and the expression on Cas’ face sends a dart of fear through him. It's unreadable but intense, and his blue eyes are burning bright.

“Cas? What's wrong?”

Cas doesn't speak, doesn't move or make a sound, just stares at Dean while he grips the doorframe for support.

“Cas? You OK?” Dean swings his legs over the side of the bed, ready to get up and approach his husband who looks almost spooked by something, but then Cas’ words pin him in place.

“We got married August first,” Cas sounds dazed, distant, and Dean feels like the bottom has dropped out of his stomach. “It was a beautiful day, scorching. Too hot for both of us, but Jimmy… he was in his element. My mother had spent too much on flowers, they were everywhere. Lilies, and you hate lilies…”

He speaks in a vague, soft tone and he's looking at Dean but also looking _through_ him, lost in the memory. Dean feels like someone has thrown ice water over him; he wants to get up and grab Cas and hold him tight, but he wants to hear more. His hands grip the edge of the bed frame tightly as Cas continues.

“So many people came. Your friends and mine, friends of my parents, Jimmy’s colleagues… It was the society event we didn't want but we did it anyway. We walked down the aisle together, I remember that part, and everyone went really quiet when we said our vows. I messed mine up because I was nervous, but then you messed yours up too so it was OK.” Cas’ eyes glaze with the memory and a smile touches the corners of his mouth. “Sam dropped the rings. Jimmy spilled champagne. My mother had to take a Xanax when she saw us playing poker with Charlie and Benny. And we danced for so long our feet ached the next morning. Ruby wore that,” his voice wavers a little. “Stupid bow tie you got her and barked all the way through your speech and everyone laughed. We woke up early and walked through the grounds and…”

And they made love on the grass alone at dawn where they were so far from the hotel that nobody could see them. Dean remembers. And so does Cas, if the way he chokes up and sucks in a breath is anything to go by.

“Cas, what, I mean, how…?”

“I don't know, I just kept getting these snatches of memory and then tonight it was like a movie, replaying over and over and I couldn't help it, Dean, I had to come and tell you.” Cas looks almost desperate as he stands there in his plaid PJ pants and one of Dean’s old t-shirts, shivering a little in the cold night air. “I'm sorry I woke you. I just wanted to tell you, and,” he falters, looking down at the hem of his t-shirt, playing with it. “I miss you so much. I just wanted to tell you that. And that I remembered. That I remember us.”

A silence fills the air and Cas shivers again, the loose thread wrapped around his fingers as he glances up, shy and clearly cautious of what's coming next.

“Come and-” Dean’s voice breaks and he tries again, reaching for Cas with a trembling hand. “Come and sit down with me.”

“Really?” Cas still looks dazed and even in the dim light Dean can see the unshed tears in his eyes. He takes a hesitant step into the room then stops, looking nervous and shy like he's going to be rejected.

“Cas…” Dean gets up and goes to him and, as he wraps his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and pulls him close against his body, feels a lump rise in his throat at the contact. Cas’ hands come up his back and grip his t-shirt tightly; he's shaking and his breath is coming in quick, shallow gasps. “Cas, come on. Come lay down. Baby, c’mon.”

And at the endearment, Cas turns his face up to Dean’s to gaze at him and Dean goes with his instincts. He presses his lips to his husband’s for the first time in months, and it feels so incredible that he wants to cry. Cas makes a little gasping mewl against his mouth and presses closer, and Dean continues to kiss him whilst sliding a hand up to cup the back of his head and hold him close. It's the most intimate kiss he can ever remember, and as their mouths move against each other he wonders idly how he has managed to livewithout this for so long. Cas seems to have come to the same conclusion and it holding Dean so tightly in return that it's almost painful, but he loves it. Loves the feel of Cas’ fingers digging in so desperately, and loves the urgency of his mouth against his own. It's a full minute before they break apart, shiny-lipped and short of breath. Cas reaches up and brushes Dean’s hair back, looking a little awed.

“Come lie down, baby,” Dean murmurs, taking Cas’ hand and drawing him across the room to the bed, where they sit together on the edge and trade shy, tender looks. “I can't believe you remember all that. That's… That's exactly it, Cas, that's how it all happened. It was the best day…” He trails off wistfully, and is about to nudge Cas to lie back when he other man drops his gaze to his hands and brushes a thumb across the tan line on his ring finger.

“Do you have… Do you still have my ring?”

“Of course I do,” Dean tries not to feel affronted at the idea that he might have thrown it away. He opens the drawer and takes it out, the little gold band glimmering in his palm, and suddenly he feels a rush of nervous anxiety. “But I, uh, I took it to this place in the city and I, uhm, had it altered. Had something added. Just for when you were ready to have it back, I thought you might like, well I thought you might _want-”_

“Dean.” Cas’ hand covers his and their eyes meet in the dim light. “Tell me?”

“I…”

But he trails off, turning the ring over in his fingers almost reverently. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. He had done it right after it had all happened, when the dust was still settling and he felt like they would get their lives straight back on track. Before all the hurt and the betrayal and the guilt forced their way in. But now he wonders if he's made a mistake and been too presumptuous with what he's done, if he's overstepped a line. But he can't take it back now, and if Cas really hates it then he can have it fixed or buy another ring. Anything to get them right again. He takes a deep breath and takes Cas’ left hand with his own, the ring clutched in his fingers ready to slide it onto Cas’ finger. Something on the inside of the band catches the light and glints, a tiny spark of deep red. There, set into the gold, is a tiny gemstone. Cas notices it, and his eyes go wide.

“I thought it was a way for you to always have her with you,” he says in a rush, trying to get the words out before he loses his nerve. “It's a ruby, a gemstone… you know what it is, of course you do. I just thought this way she's still here, in a way, and I know how much you miss her. I thought it could be a way of taking her memory with you wherever you are, and I wanted to buy you a pendant or something but then I thought your ring was the perfect place for her. Right in the heart of our family, because that's where she belongs. And we’ll never forget her. So I hoped this was something you'd like…”

He stops, watching as Cas takes the ring and runs a fingertip over the little inset gemstone with near reverence. He seems incapable of finding the words to respond, and Dean is left with a tense few seconds where he doesn't know if Cas is happy with what he's done or not, worried he's made a giant mistake. Then Cas makes an aborted movement, as though to slide the ring onto his own finger, and looks up at Dean with red-rimmed eyes.

“Could you?” He isn't crying, but his voice is thick with emotion as he holds the ring out, and Dean understands at once. “It feels right for you to do it.”

Dean nods and wordlessly takes Cas’ hand in his and slides the ring into place, watching as Cas clenches his fist around it and gets used to the feeling of it once more. He seems unable to take his eyes off it. Dean leans in, feeling buoyed by his husband’s obvious acceptance of the gift, slowly slides a hand into Castiel’s hair and kisses him lightly on the mouth, drawing him closer until they're lying side-by-side in bed and Dean has drawn the comforter and blankets up to cover them, blocking out the chill of the wintry air. Cas turns to lie on his side, facing Dean, his cheek pillowed on the back of his hand.

“I love you, Dean,” Cas whispers. “I want us back.”

“Me too, sweetheart.” And it's as though something has fallen away from between them; Dean closes the small gap and wraps an arm around Castiel’s waist, watching as he smiles hopefully. “We’re back. I'm gonna make sure of it this time. I love you, too.”

“I don't know if I ever thanked you for what you did,” Cas murmurs into the space between them. “For saving me like that.”

“You did. But I'd do it again a hundred times if I had to.” Dean traces Cas’ bottom lip with a fingertip. “Does it make me an awful person if I say I'd imagined doing that? Even before I knew his name and his face, I'd imagined killing him so many times for what he did to you. So to actually _do_ it was…” Yeah. It was something, that's for sure. He never feels good about firing his weapon, and taking a life isn't something he's ever going to be comfortable with. But damn, that bastard had it coming.

“It doesn't make you a bad person,” Cas replies and a weight lifts from Dean’s heart. “I imagined the same. When I saw him lying there though,” Cas closes his eyes for a brief moment. “I know you tried to shield me from it but I saw him, and he looked so small. So _old_. How did I ever let myself be so manipulated by him?”

“Because he was an abuser, Cas. He knew how to get to you and what buttons to press. He knew your weaknesses and he played on them.”

Cas is quiet for a moment. Then he says, quietly, “You were my one true weakness. He knew I would do anything for you.” Their eyes meet and something passes between them. “That I will always do anything for you.”

Dean pulls him close, sliding his arm around Cas’ shoulders and burying his hand in his thick, dark hair. Cas sighs against him and Dean hugs him tight.

“I'll do anything for you, too. Always.”

They don't sleep for a while. They lie talking, and Cas remembers more and more of their wedding day the longer they do. By the time dawn comes around, Dean is lying on Cas’ chest with his arms around him, and they're sleeping more soundly than either of them have in months.


	16. Chapter 16

Dean leans back into the couch rubbing his stomach and belches with satisfaction. It's late in the evening on Christmas Day, and he's curled up with Cas as the credits roll on _The Muppet Christmas Carol._ Sam and Jess have dropped by and so has Jimmy, but they've all gone on to other celebrations - or, in Jimmy’s case, a black tie event run by someone named Balthazar with the promises of endless champagne and lots of beautiful people. Dean and Cas had declined any invitations, wanting instead to spend the evening together. Cuddling with Cas and going to bed early sounds entirely perfect, in Dean’s opinion.

He's in therapy and it's tough. _Really_ fucking tough. Unpacking and unravelling all his feelings about the past few months is exhausting, and even with Cas and Sam supporting him it's taking a toll. He knows that it will get better but right now he's struggling to process it all. He and Cas are back to normal as much as they can be, but struggle with their respective guilt and the aftermath of it all on a daily basis. Once, Cas had sat up in the middle of the night, wide awake, and asked Dean if he wanted a divorce. That had been a horrible night, with both of them arguing then crying, then arguing some more and eventually waking up in the late morning curled up together with dried salty tear-tracks on their cheeks.

They've made love a handful of times, just gentle touches and kisses, and that in itself has brought them closer. Sometimes Cas can't finish, and they stop halfway through. But more often than not they lie sweaty and sated together and sleep the night away in each other's arms. Last night was one of those nights, and Dean’s thighs still ache in the most delicious way.

“I love you, man,” he whispers into Cas’ hair, brushing loose strands back off his forehead, and feels him smile into his side. “Hell of a year, huh?”

“Yeah,” Cas replies wistfully. “Lots of changes.”

“Yeah.” Dean stares into the fire, contemplatively. “We got married.”

“Yeah we did.” Cas smiles, his tone lighter. “It was the best day.”

“It really was. You looked amazing. I wish we could relive it.”

“Me too.” They lapse into silence, both staring into the fire, and Dean slowly becomes aware of the change in Cas’ breathing and glances down to see his husband looking suddenly downcast.

“What if I never remember, Dean?” Cas’ eyes are wide and damp, and he scrubs at them savagely with the back of his hand. “All those things we did together, the places we went, the things we saw… what if I never remember any of them? What if I never remember us?”

“You will.” Dean’s tone is sure but privately he isn't. He doesn't know if Cas’ memories will ever return at all, but he's made his peace with that. Now Cas needs to, as much as he can. “And if you don't, I'll spend the rest of my life reminding you. All the places you loved? We’ll go there again, make new memories. We’ll do the things we've done together again. We’ll do it all again, Cas, because you deserve to remember. We have an awesome love story,” He winks and Cas smiles tearfully. “So why not go back and repeat the best bits?”

“That sounds amazing, Dean.” Cas looks down at his hands, and he's hiding something. It's obvious. But Dean knows better than to push, so he waits, silently impatient. “I remember us meeting.” Cas glances up and smiles, the lights from the Christmas tree twinkling and reflecting in his eyes. “That was a good night.”

“Hell yeah, it was.”

“I remember getting married, and I think I remember our vows. I remember yours. And I remember this,” Cas flashes his wedding ring to Dean; it glints in the lamplight. “But…” he trails off, clearly dejected about something. “I don't remember you proposing. I don't remember where we were or what you said, or what I said. How can I not remember, Dean?” His eyes are wide again, sparkling like the ocean, swimming with tears. “How can I not remember such an amazing day?”

Dean stares at him for just a moment then leans in to take hold of both his hands. Cas’ wedding band presses comfortingly into his finger. “You don't remember it, Cas, because I didn't propose.”

“You… you didn't?” Cas is frowning in confusion and sniffles.

“No. You did.” Dean settles back on the couch, pulling Cas into his side. He puts his feet up on the coffee table; Cas tucks his under himself and leans into Dean, arm curled firmly across his stomach, listening quietly. “It was my thirty-fifth birthday and it was freezing outside. Like, the coldest winter we've had in forever. You'd already given me some awesome gifts - like that vinyl we were listening to earlier - and I wasn't expecting anything else. Ruby was asleep by the fire, you were in that ghastly sweater Jimmy bought you, and you came and sat down next to me. I guess I should have known, but I didn't.”

Dean leans his head on Cas’ smiling at the memory, and he feels his husband sigh contentedly and cuddle closer. The fire is crackling away merrily and they're both bundled up in knotted socks and sweaters. The house smells of those cinnamon candles Cas likes and he knows won't be too long before they're heading out to get their Christmas tree; he can't wait to decorate it with Cas. With his husband. It's been a hell of a year, so unbelievably far from what he expected, but it's ending the way it should do. With Cas curled up at his side, safe.

And, with warmth and nostalgia, as though reading from his favourite book of all time, he tells him their story.

*

**Six Months Later**

Cas unlocks the door to their apartment, simultaneously shrugging off his jacket and shifting the grocery bag from one arm to the other. It's still a challenge, carrying heavy stuff, especially in the cold but his iron-clad determination means it gets easier every day. It's the more intricate things he struggles with now, but thanks to his employers being extremely generous to him and not only relocating his office to the ground floor but hiring him a PA (a small, shy kid by the name of Alfie who is consistently delighted to be working in Castiel’s very vicinity, let alone helping him personally), he's getting by almost like old times. He can almost play all his favourite songs on the piano again too, which is no small feat.

They sold their house the week after Christmas. Neither of them could bear to be in it for any longer, and Cas had begun waking up in the night screaming to nightmares of Ruby being slaughtered and fragmented memories of his rape triggered, most likely, by starting therapy again and the old memories being dredged up. Dean had done all the work: got them a realtor, had photographs taken, negotiated the sale, and less than a month later they were moving into an apartment in the middle of town, near to Castiel’s work, and it truly feels now like the past is behind them. The apartment is light and airy, a duplex on the ground floor of an upmarket building, and it suits them perfectly. It's all open-plan downstairs, plenty of space and room for their furniture and Cas’ piano over by the window, and two bedrooms upstairs - one for them and one for Jimmy when he visits, which is frequently these days. He had moved back to New York three weeks ago, deeming Castiel well enough for him to leave, but still comes to stay at least once a month. There are plants on every windowsill, and pale blinds which let light stream through during the day and allow the glimmering life of the city to filter through during the night. If it's too quiet, too still or too dark, Cas gets a little freaked. He can cope with the locks on the doors despite his lack of dexterity with his hands, can deal with the stairs if he concentrates, and the building has excellent security and a doorman. Crowley, a spitfire of a Brit dressed constantly in black which makes him look like a nightclub bouncer, has bonded well with Cas already. It helps him feel safe, he said one night, knowing that someone else is nearby, outside, keeping them safe. Dean had laid quietly beside Cas, stroking his hair, and had reassured him that he was safe all the while staring up at the ceiling of their new bedroom and hoping he can keep his promise. Deciding then and there that he would rather die than break it. He will keep Cas safe if it's the last thing he does.

The nights are light, warm, and beautiful. Castiel enjoys walking home in the evenings from work and seeing people mill about around him. It's a stark reminder daily that he's alive. The walk home is fine, it isn't far. Two blocks, and even on really cold, icy days Castiel is sure he will want to walk. He struggles with driving now, his coordination not back to normal, and he gets headaches often so he doesn't like to get behind the wheel of a car. The only person he's happy to ride shotgun with is Dean, and nobody ever pressures him to get in a car with them. They all, silently, understand.

“Dean?” He climbs the stairs up to the bedrooms slowly, grasping the rail for support, shaking the remnants of warm, summery raindrops from his hair and shouting for his husband. But the noise he receives in return is far from human and he frowns as his heart stutters. It sounds, in fact, just like…

“Hey, Cas.” Dean appears in the doorway of their bedroom, barefoot in jeans with a grin on his face, and in his arms is the source of the noise: a ball of tan and black fur with giant ears and sparkling eyes. Cas stops dead in the middle of the hallway and just stares.

“What… who is that?”

“Oh, this?” Dean scratches the puppy behind its ears; it yips happily and tries to bite his fingers. “I forgot to tell you. Trenton got the funding approved for a new canine unit, and this little guy is our first trainee.”

“You… he's…” Cas slowly puts all the pieces together, staring at the puppy with wide eyes. “You _forgot_ to tell me?”

“Or, well, maybe I wanted to surprise you, baby. You're looking at the new K9 division manager within the precinct. Trenton signed all the paperwork today so it's official.” Dean’s smile lights up his whole face and he hurried over to wrap an arm around his husband in welcome. “We’re both going to need a lot of training, for sure, aren't we champ?” He rubs noses with the puppy who, in turn, licks his cheek. “And it will take a while. But yeah. Step in the right direction.”

Cas, starry-eyed, gazes at the puppy with a slow-spreading look of excitement on his face.

Dean has been more affected by Cas’ ordeal than he originally realised. His attempts to return to his old role within the force had all been disastrous as every crime scene he visited he would be hit with flashbacks of Cas, lying near death on a hospital gurney, or visions of Ishim choking on his own blood while Cas cowered nearby. He didn't trust his colleagues, and they found it hard to work with him. Harvelle had eventually hauled him into the office and proposed he transfer to a different role within the force as they didn't want to lose him but both he and his colleagues were suffering. And now, it's all finally come together and Dean looks like he's just won a million dollars. Cole Trenton, Dean’s new boss, is focused and shrewd, and they seem to get on like old friends. There's been something in the works for a while, Cas has known it, but now it's all come true and it feels like this is the last piece of the puzzle to fall into place.

“That’s… I'm so happy for you, babe.” Cas kisses him on the mouth, elated but distracted. Dean hands him the puppy, a compact little Alsatian, and watches as his husband makes gooey eyes at it. “What's it called?”

“This is Atlas. And, sorry Cas, but he's taken.”

“Oh, it's OK. I'm… I'm not sure I'm ready for another one anyway.”

But that's a bald-faced lie and Dean knows it. Cas looks a little like he's been kicked, cuddling the puppy close and knowing he can't keep it. He's more than aware that Cas has been looking at the local shelters online - he's always been terrible at clearing his search history. Dean eventually decided he needed a little push in the right direction and with the K9 approval finally going through? Well, if that isn't fate intervening then what is?

“Are you sure?” The pup yips and bites Cas’ fingers cheerfully. “Because, well, if you _were_ ready…”

A muffled _thunk_ sounds from their bedroom, somewhere behind Dean, and Cas’ eyes widen in curiosity. A moment later, a pale grey puppy with even larger ears than his brother and bright blue eyes stumbles out into the corridor on shaky legs - and promptly walks into the wall. He's disproportionate: huge bat ears, snout a little too short, and his legs don't all seem to point the correct way. He's absolutely adorable. As he gazes up at Cas, Dean, and Atlas he lets out a joyful yelp and canters towards them, only a little bit off-kilter. Cas stares down at him as he arrives at his feet, skidding a little on the wooden floor and colliding with Cas’ boots before proceeding to yank and tug on his laces. Within seconds they're undone, and the puppy backs away to sit down, triumphant. Then, he tries to gaze up and falls over backwards, legs akimbo, barking happily at himself.

“Who… what's wrong with him, Dean?” Cas sounds enraptured and, passing Atlas back into his husband’s arms, he bends down and strokes the puppy, ruffling its overlarge ears. It's unbearably clear that it's love at first sight: Cas practically has hearts coming out of his eyes and the puppy is gazing up at him as if to say, _hey daddy._

“He's just fine. Something to do with brain damage before he was born but the vet says that with a little extra love and attention he will live a really great life - he can't work as a scent dog, of course, so we need to find him a home. He's the last of the litter.” The puppy barks and Cas laughs, entertained. “I've been callin’ him Zeke.”

“Zeke,” Cas repeats, and scoops him up into his arms, smiling as the puppy wriggles in delight and licks his nose. “You remind me of someone, Zeke.” His voice is soft and his eyes seem a little misty. “Someone else who is just a little bit broken, too.”

Dean wraps an arm tightly around his shoulders and they both stare down at their respective puppies.

“He's yours if you want him, Cas. I know you might not be ready yet, but I thought… he might fill some of the gap that Ruby left behind. And I even talked to Shepherd,” Cas’ eyes go wide with surprise at this. “And he thinks it could really help you. Taking him for walks, playing with him… it will all help your, you know, coordination and dexterity and stuff…” He trails off, kissing Cas’ head right where the old surgical scar is now covered by his dark hair. He hates that he's had to learn what words like ‘ataxia’ and ‘discoordination’ mean, but he's been making a concerted effort to research everything he can to help Cas live a life as close to his old one as possible. He can almost hear his husband thinking, mulling over life with a new puppy. A new companion. “And for company, as well. Someone to welcome you home when I'm out. Someone to talk to.”

Cas rolls his eyes in a valiant attempt to disguise the tears in them. “Dogs don't talk back, Dean.”

“This one might,” He tickles Zeke under the chin; the puppy paws at him and pants, looking remarkably like he's smiling. “You're not broken, Cas.”

“I am a bit,” Cas, clearly in love, hugs Zeke close. The puppy snuggles into his chest and sighs, clearly relaxed and feeling safe in his arms. “And so is he. We might make a good team.”

“I think you might.” They stare down at Zeke as he closes his eyes and settles. “How about a trial? See what you think of each other?”

“I’d like that.” Cas says, quietly. “But…”

“But?”

“Ruby wouldn't think I was replacing her, would she?” Cas meets Dean’s gaze with worry creasing his brows. “She would know I wasn't replacing her?”

“Of course.” Dean kisses him firmly on the mouth. “She would know. She knows. Maybe,” he gestures at the pup. “This is her sending someone to take over looking after you. Since she can't any more…”

He breaks off and swallows, having brought tears to his own eyes. Atlas nips his finger and he turns away to hide his emotion. Cas is quiet for a moment then kneels down and places Zeke down, watching as he ambles off towards the stairs and stops, staring down them. Dean is quick to scoop him up and carries both pups downstairs and sets them down as he ferrets about to find food and bowls for them. As he glances back, watching Cas reach the bottom of the stairs and retrieve the grocery bag from the hallway, he sees Atlas lift his leg and urinate on their couch. Cas smothers a laugh behind a hand.

“You never did the puppy thing, right?” He laughs outright as Zeke copies his brother and pees all over the rug. “Welcome to four-legged fatherhood, Dean. It's great.”

Later, when Atlas has been returned to Trenton and they're lying in bed, low crying and barking and howling drifts up to them and wakes Dean, who had been on the edge of sleep. He groans, turns over and buries his head beneath his pillow.

“I should go get him,” Cas says, sitting up and listening as Zeke lets out another woeful, lonely howl.

“No…” He murmurs, drowsy and comfortable. “No dogs on the bed. Lie down, babe,”

He's asleep again before he knows whether Cas got up or not. It's no surprise when he wakes the next morning to a mouthful of fur. Cas is lying on his side, asleep, with Zeke dozing open-mouthed in his arms. He watches them both for a while and notices something about Cas. The frown lines between his brows are fading. The tension around his eyes seems decreased. His mouth no longer turns downward at the corners. He reaches over, warm and comfortable snuggled up in their bed in the cool morning light, and brushes Cas’ hair off his face.

Blue eyes open slowly and meet his. There's gentle confusion hidden in their depths, but the light from the window makes them sparkle beautifully.

“Hey, Cas.” His voice is barely above a whisper. It always takes his husband a moment to come back to himself when he wakes up, but this morning something seems different. Maybe it's time working its magic, or maybe it's the puppy curled up in their bed. Dean doesn't know. But something special seems to have fallen back into place.

Cas smiles.

“Hello, Dean.”

 

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has supported me throughout writing this, to everyone who commented and left kudos and spoken to me on Tumblr and Facebook: thank you, and you're amazing. Writing crime drama is tougher than I ever imagined, and I only hope I did a good job bringing it all to a conclusion. I've shed so many tears over Dean and Cas while writing this, especially in the last two chapters. 
> 
> Reviews and feedback are awesome, I love hearing what you think. Endless love for you all and thank you so much for reading ♥

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/coffeeandcas) if you want to come and talk to me. Please do, I love hearing from you all.


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